^RY  OF  fStiNCfrfy 


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BV    5075     .V3    1893 

Vaughan,  Robert  Alfred,  1823 

-1857. 
Hours  with  the  mystics 


HOURS   WITH    THE    MYSTICS 


Uniform  ivith  this  zoliiine,  croivn  ^vo,  cloth. 
I. 

THE    SYMBOLISM    OF    CHURCHES 

A>.~3 

CHURCH  ORNAMENTS 

A   TRANSLATION    OF   THE    FIRST   BOOK 
OF    THE 

RATIONALE  DIVINORUM   OFFICIORUM 

Of  AVILLIAM   DURANDUS 

With   Introductory   Essay   and  Nptes   by    the 

Rev.  J.  M.  NEALE  and  Rev.  B.  WEBB 


II. 

SYMBOLISM,    OR     EXPOSITION 

OF    THE 

DOCTRINAL  DIFFERENCES 

BETWEEN 

CATHOLICS    AND    PROTESTANTS 

As   evidenced   by   their   Symbolical   Writings 
By  JOHN   ADAM    MOEHLER,  D.D. 


HOURS  WITH  THE  MYSTlC^ 

H  Contribution  to  tbe  Ibistori?  of 
IRelioious  ©pinion 


ROBERT  ALFRED  VAUGHAN,   B.A. 


SIXTH  EDITION 

TWO    VOLUMES   IN    ONE 

VOL.   I 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 

743    &    745    BROADWAY 
1893 


PREFACE    TO    THE    THIRD    EDITION. 


^"*HE  work  which  is  now  again  pubh'shed  was  the 
-i-  result  of  too  many  years'  steady  application,  and 
has  served  too  great  an  intellectual  use  in  the  special 
department  of  thought  of  which  it  treats,  to  be  allowed 
to  fall  into  oblivion.  Certainly  the  reading  which  the 
author  thought  it  necessary  to  accomplish  before  he 
presented  his  conclusions  to  the  public  was  vast 
and  varied.  That  the  fruit  of  his  labours  was  com- 
mensurate may  be  gathered  from  the  honest  admi- 
ration which  has  been  expressed  by  men  knowing 
what  hard  study  really  means.  The  first  edition  of 
the  'Hours  with  the  Mystics'  appeared  in  1856; 
the  second  was,  to  a  great  extent,  revised  by  the 
author,  but  it  did  not  appear  until  after  his  death. 
It  was  edited  by  his  father,  though  most  of  the  work  of 
correction  and  verification  was  done  by  the  author's 
widow. 

There  is  no  intention  of  writing  a  memoir  here.  That 
has  already  been  done.  But  it  has  been  suggested  that 
it  might  be  interesting  to  trace  how  Mysticism  gradually 
became  the  author's  favourite  study.  To  do  that  it  may 
be  well  to  give  a  very  short  sketch  of  his  literary 
career. 

From  the  time  he  was  quite  a  child  he  had  the  fixed 


yl  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 

idea  that  he  must  be  a  literary  man.  In  his  twenty- 
first  year  (1844)  he  published  a  volume  of  poems, 
entitled  *  The  Witch  of  Endor,  and  other  Poems.'  The 
poetry  in  this  little  volume — long  since  out  of  print — was 
held  to  give  promise  of  genius.  It  was,  of  course,  the 
production  of  youth,  and  in  after  years  the  author 
was  fully  conscious  of  its  defects.  But  even  though  some 
critics  (and  none  could  be  a  harder  critic  of  his  own 
work  than  himself)  might  point  out  an  '  overcrowding 
of  metaphor'  and  a  '  want  of  clearness,'  others  could  in- 
stance evidences  of 'high  poetical  capability'  and  'happy 
versification.  But  at  the  time  it  was  thought  desirable 
that  the  young  poet  should  turn  his  attention  to  prose 
composition  with  the  same  earnestness.  With  that  object 
his  father  proposed  to  him  the  study  of  the  writings  of 
Origen,  with  a  view  to  an  article  on  the  subject  in  the 
British  Quarterly  Revieiv.  When  just  twenty-two  the 
author  finished  this  task,  his  first  solid  contribution  to  the 
literature  of  the  day.  The  article  showed  signs  of  dili- 
gence and  patient  research  in  gaining  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  the  opinions  of  the  great  thinker  with  whom  it 
dealt.  '  It  is  nobly  done,'  Judge  Talfourd  wrote.  '  If  there 
is  some  exuberance  of  ornament  in  the  setting  forth 
of  his  (Origen's)  brilliant  theories,  it  is  only  akin 
to  the  irregular  greatness  and  the  Asiatic  splendour 
of  the  mind  that  conceived  them.'  And  the  words 
of  the  late  Sir  James  Stephen  were  not  less  flat- 
tering:  'If  I  had  been  told  that  the  writer  of  it  (the 
article)  was  a  grandfather,  I  should  have  wondered 
only  that  the  old  man  had  retained  so  much  spirit  and 
been  able  to  combine  it  with  a  maturity  of  judgment  so 
well    becoming  his  years.'     We  believe  it   is  no  pre- 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  vii 

sumption  to  say  that  the  article  has  not  ceased  to 
be  useful  to  those  who  wish  to  gain  an  idea  of  the 
character  of  one  whose  name  has  often  been  the  subject 
of  bitter  wordy  war  between  Christian  men. 

In  1 846,  a  dramatic  piece  by  Alfred  Vaughan,  entitled 
'Edwin  and  Elgiva,'  appeared  in  the  London  University 
Magazine.  The  subject  was  one  of  a  most  sensational 
character,  and  was  treated  accordingly.  Dunstan  and 
his  companions  are  painted  in  very  black  colours,  and 
any  doubts  as  to  the  reality  of  the  cruelties  alleged  to 
have  been  practised  on  the  unhappy  Queen  are  not 
entertained.  Two  poem.s,  the  '  Masque  of  Antony'  and 
'Disenchantment,'  though  not  published  until  later, 
were  written  about  the  same  date. 

At  this  time,  the  author  was  attending  the  theo- 
logical course  at  Lancashire  Independent  College,  of 
which  his  father  was  the  president.  Having  completed  his 
term  of  residence  there,  he  went  over  to  Halle  in  order 
to  spend  a  year  in  a  German  University,  before  entering 
upon  any  fixed  pastoral  work.  There  he  had  a  good 
opportunity  of  studying  the  state  of  German  religious 
thought.  The  following  extract  from  his  journal  shows 
the  effect  produced  on  his  mind  : — '  If  I  am  spared  to  re- 
turn, I  will  preach  more  of  what  is  called  the  Gospel  than 
I  did  before.  The  talk  about  adapting  religion  to  the  t ivies 
which  is  prevalent  here,  even  among  the  religious,  appears 
to  me  a  miserable  mistake.  It  never  needed  adapting  so 
mnch  as  xvhen  the  apostles  preached  it,  but  they  made  no 
such  effort!  It  was,  too,  while  studying  German  specu- 
lations that  the  author  adopted  the  system  of  philosophy, 
distinct  alike  from  sceptical  and  mystical,  which  i.s 
apparent  in  this  his  chief  work. 


viii  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 

It  is,  we  believe,  impossible  for  an  earnest  mind  to  go 
through  life  without  periods  of  sad  and  painful  doubt. 
The  author  was  no  exception  to  this  rule,  and  while  at 
Halle  he  seems  to  have  suffered  bitterly.  But  lie  knew  the 
one  refuge  for  the  doubting  heart,  and  turned  to  it.  In 
the  '  Dream  of  Philo/  written  at  this  time  and  pub- 
lished in  the  volumes  of  'Essays  and  Remains,'  we 
see  some  reflection  of  his  own  feelings,  and  the  following 
verses  which  we  venture  to  quote  must,  wc  think,  strike 
a  responsive  chord  in  many  a  heart  yearning  for  peace 
amid.st  the  turmoil  of  the  world  : — 

Not  a  pathway  in  life's  forest, 

Not  a  pathway  on  life's  sea  ; 
Who  doth  heed  me,  who  doth  lead  me, 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

Vain  the  planting  and  the  training, 

For  life's  tree  on  every  side 
Ever  launches  useless  branches. 

Springs  not  high  but  spreadeth  wide. 

Ah,  my  days  go  not  together 

In  an  earnest  solemn  train. 
But  go  straying  for  their  playing, 

Or  are  by  each  other  slain. 

Listen,  listen,  thou  forgettest 

Thou  art  one  of  many  more  ; 
All  this  ranging  and  this  changing 

Has  been  law  to  man  of  yore. 

And  thou  canst  not  in  life's  city 

Rule  thy  course  as  in  a  cell 
There  are  others,  all  thy  brothers, 

Who  have  work  to  do  as  well. 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  ix 

Some  events  that  mar  thy  purpose 
May  light  them  upon  their  way  \ 

Our  sun-shining  in  decHning 
Gives  earth's  other  side  the  day. 

Every  star  is  drawn  and  draweth 

Mid  the  orbits  of  its  peers  ; 
And  the  blending  thus  unending 

Makes  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

If  thou  doest  one  work  only, 
In  that  one  work  thou  wilt  fail ; 

Use  thou  many  ropes  if  any 
For  the  shifting  of  thy  sail. 

Then  will  scarce  a  wind  be  stirring 

But  thy  canvas  it  shall  fill ; 
Not  the  near  way  as  thou  thoughtest, 
But  through  tempest  as  thou  oughtest, 
Though  not  straightly,  not  less  greatly, 

Thou  shalt  win  the  haven  still. 

These  verses  have  been  called  'Alfred  Vaughan's  Psalm 
of  Life.'  The  lessons  taught  may  be  an  encouragement  to 
others,  as  they  have  been  to  the  author's  son,  in  times  of 
trial  and  disappointment. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  at  this  time  the 
author's  thoughts  were  all  devoted  to  painful  doubts  and 
yearnings.  He  determined  while  in  Germany  to  unite  the 
labours  of  a  literary  man  to  the  work  of  a  pastor.  His 
first  plan  was  to  take  special  periods  of  Church  History 
and  lay  them  before  his  readers  in  the  form  of  dramas. 
He  thus  describes  his  idea: — 'I  shall  commence  the  series 
with  Savonarola.  I  think  it  will  not  be  necessary  to 
pay  regard  to  chronological  order  in  the  order  of  com- 
position.    I   may  afterwards  take  up  Chrysostom,  per- 


Preface  to  the  Third  Editiofl. 


haps  Hildebrand,  endeavouring  in  all  not  merely  to 
develop  the  character  of  the  principal  personage,  but  to 
give  an  exact  picture  of  the  religious  and  political  spirit 
of  the  times.  They  must  be  dramas  on  the  principles 
of  King  John  or  Henry  IV.,  rather  than  those  oi  Hamlet 
or  Macbeth'  With  this  scheme  his  father  did  not 
entirely  agree,  and  the  consequence  was  a  considerable 
correspondence.  Dr.  Vaughan  never  doubted  the  genius 
of  his  son,  or  that  something  definite  would  come  of 
his  literary  tastes,  but  he  appears  to  have  thought  that 
the  dramatic  form  was  not  a  good  way  in  which  to 
bring  the  result  of  genuine  hard  work  before  the  public. 
As  it  happened,  none  of  these  dramas  saw  the  light, 
though  the  plan  of  the  '  Hours  with  the  Mystics'  shows 
the  strong  attachment  the  author  felt  for  that  kind  of 
writing,  and  it  also  shows  the  way  in  which  he  could 
overcome  any  difficulties  arising  from  its  peculiarities. 
The  notion  of  gentlemen  discussing  the  Mystics,  over 
their  wine  and  walnuts,  or  in  the  garden  with  the  ladies 
in  the  twilight  of  a  summer  evening,  has  had  to  en- 
counter the  sneers  of  some  harsh  critics,  but  we  cannot 
help  thinking  that  advantage  is  gained  by  the  device 
of  these  conversations,  because  the  talking  by  various 
speakers  affords  an  easy  opportunity  of  glancing  over 
many  varying  theories  upon  any  subject  at  the  same  time, 
while  the  essayist  would  find  it  difficult  to  keep  his  line 
of  argument  clear,  and  at  the  same  moment  state  the 
divergent  lines  of  thought  necessary  for  the  right  under- 
standing of  the  position  generally. 

The  author  began  definite  ministerial  work  at  Bath 
in  1848.  The  thoroughness  with  which  he  performed 
his   pastoral  duties  did  not  give   him   much   time  for 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xi 

literary  work.  The  articles  written  during  his  stay  in 
that  city  were  those  on  Schleiermacher  and  Savonarola. 
The  materials  for  both  essays  were  collected  while 
at  Halle.  When  writing  to  inform  his  father  of  the 
completion  of  the  first  of  the  articles,  he  refers  to  the 
Mystics  in  the  following  way  : — 

*  I  shall  not  begin  to  write  another  article  at  once. 
But  I  should  like  to  fix  on  one  to  have  more-or-less  in 
view.  There  are  three  subjects  on  which  I  should  like 
to  write  some  time  or  other — (i)  Savonarola,  for  which  I 
have  much  material;  (2)  on  Mysticism,  tracing  it  in  the 
East,  in  the  Greek  Church,  in  the  German  Mystics  of 
the  14th  century,  in  the  French  Mystics,  and  lastly  in 
those  most  recent;  (3)  Leo  the  Great  and  his  stirring 
times.  I  should  like  to  do  the  Savonarola  next.  But 
I  should  also  like  to  know  what  you  think  on  these  sub- 
jects, or  on  any  other  you  would  perhaps  like  better. 
The  first  and  third  would  consist  largely  of  interesting 
narrative.  The  second  would  be  rather  less  popular 
but  more  novel.' 

The  *  second '  subject  was  worked  up  into  the  two 
volumes  now  republished.  As  it  gradually  became  his 
favourite  study,  he  felt  that  the  field  was  expanding  before 
him,  and  that  it  would  be  necessary,  if  he  did  justice 
to  his  theme,  to  treat  it  at  a  greater  length  than  could 
be  allowed  to  a  magazine  article.  In  the  British  Quar- 
terly Review  articles  appeared  on  '  Madame  Guyon,' 
and  *  The  Mystics  and  the  Reformers,'  which  were  simply 
the  first  results  of  his  reading  for  the  great  work.  It 
was  at  Birmingham  that  most  of  this  writing  was  done  : 
while  there  he  was  an  indefatigable  student.  '  There,' 
says    a    writer    in    the    Eclectic    Review,  Nov.    1861, 


xii  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 


p.  508,  'he  made  himself  familiar  with  many  languages 
— the  old  German,  the  Spanish,  even  the  Dutch, 
adding  these  to  the  Italian,  French,  Latin,  and 
Greek  in  the  classical  and  later  forms,  and  all  as 
preparations  to  the  History  of  Mysticism  to  which 
he  had  pledged  himself.  The  Mystics  had  thrown 
a  spell  upon  him.  Seldom  have  they  wrought  their 
charms  without  seducing  to  their  bewildering  self- 
abandonment In  the  case   of  Alfred   Vaughan 

it  was  not  so  ;  he  continued  faithful  to  the  high  duties 
of  life.  He  trod  the  sphere  of  action  and  compelled 
the  ghostly  band  he  visited,  or  who  visited  him,  to  pay 
tribute  to  the  highest  religious  teaching  of  Christian 
truth  and  life.'  But  the  body  would  not  keep  pace  with 
his  mind.  In  1 85  5  he  was  obliged  to  resign  his  pastoral 
charge  at  Birmingham,  and  from  that  time  he  devoted 
himself  entirely  to  literature.  He  wrote  several  articles 
and  criticisms,  chiefly  in  the  British  Quarterly  amongst 
these,  one  on  Kingsley's  'Hypatia,'  which  we  believe  was 
much  appreciated  by  the  future  Canon  of  Westminster. 
An  article  on  *  Art  and  History '  appeared  in  Frasers 
Magazijte  about  the  same  time.  And  now  we  reach 
the  first  publication  of  his  greater  achievement,  the 
'Hours  with  the  Mystics.'  In  August,  1855,  the  printing 
of  the  original  edition  began,  and  was  completed  in  the 
February  of  the  following  year.  The  author  lived  long 
enough  afterwards  to  witness  its  success,  and  then 
swiftly  came  the  end.  In  October,  1857,  Alfred  Vaughan 
passed  away  into  another  world  where  he  has  doubt- 
less found  many  of  those  on  whose  characters  he 
loved  to  muse.  We  will  not  attempt  any  analysis 
of   his    character,    but  we   cannot    resist    the  impulse 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xiii 

to  insert  one  loving  tribute  to  his  memory,  which 
appeared  in  a  Birmingham  paper  {Aris'  Gazette, 
Nov.  27th,  1857).  'It  has  seemed  fit  to  the  All-Wise 
Disposer  of  events  to  withdraw  from  this  world  one  of 
its  holiest  and  most  gifted  inhabitants,  one  who,  had  his 
life  been  prolonged,  bade  fair  to  have  taken  rank  among 
its  brightest  lights  and  most  distinguished  ornaments. 
....  The  strength  and  sweetness,  so  happily  blended 
in  his  character,  were  apparent  in  his  preaching  ;  he  was 
tender  enough  for  the  most  womanly  heart,  he  was  in- 
tellectual enough  for  the  most  masculine  mind.  As  a 
writer  he  had  already  attained  considerable  reputation, 
and  promised  to  become  one  of  the  chief  luminaries  of 
the  age.  As  a  Christian,  he  was  sound  in  faith,  benig- 
nant in  spirit,  and  most  holy  in  life;  a  delighter  in  the 
doctrine  of  God,  his  Saviour,  and  an  eminent  adorner 
of  that  doctrine.' 

Before  venturing  on  any  remarks  upon  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  book  itself,  we  may  be  allowed  to  make  a 
slight  reference  to  opinions  expressed  upon  it  at  the 
time  of  its  publication.  In  Erasers  Magazine  for 
September,  1856,  there  was  a  long  review  by  Canon 
Kingsley.  In  this  article  weak  points  are  shown  and 
sometimes  the  criticisms  are  rather  severe  ;  but  there  was 
too  much  real  sympathy  between  the  two  men  (though 
they  never  knew  each  other  personally)  for  the  reviewer 
not  fully  to  appreciate  the  good  qualities  in  the  work 
before  him.  Now  that  Charles  Kingsley's  name  is  such 
a  household  word  in  England,  no  apology  is  needed  for 
quoting  two  passages  from  the  above-mentioned  essay. 
'  There  is  not  a  page,'  it  says  in  one  place,  'nor  a 
paragraph  in  which  there  is  not  something  worth  recoh 


xiv  Preface  to  tJie  Third  Editioji. 

lecting,  and  often  reflections  very  wise  and  weighty 
indeed,  which  show  that  whether  or  not  Mr.  Vaughan 
has  thoroughly  grasped  the  subject  of  Mysticism,  he 
has  grasped  and  made  part  of  his  own  mind  and  heart 
many  things  far  more  practically  important  than  Mysti- 
cism, or  any  other  form  of  thought;  and  no  one  ought 
to  rise  up  from  the  perusal  of  his  book  without  finding 
himself,  if  not  a  better,  at  least  a  more  thoughtful  man, 
and  perhaps  a  humbler  one  also,  as  he  learns  how  many 
more  struggles  and  doubts,  discoveries,  sorrows  and  joys, 
the  human  race  has  passed  through,  than  are  contained 
in  his  own  private  experience.'  In  another  place,  while 
pointing  out  various  improvements  which  he  would  like 
to  see  in  another  edition,  Mr.  Kingsley  adds,  'But  whether 
our  hope  be  fulfilled  or  not,  a  useful  and  honourable 
future  is  before  the  man  who  could  write  such  a  book 
as  this  is  in  spite  of  all  defects.'  The  reviewer  adds 
later  in  a  reprint  of  this  essay,  *  Mr.  Vaughan's  death 
does  not,  I  think,  render  it  necessary  for  me  to  alter 
any  of  the  opinions  expressed  here,  and  least  of  all  that 
in  the  last  sentence,  fulfilled  now  more  perfectly  than 
I  could  have  foreseen.' 

With  the  mention  of  Charles  Kingsley's  name  we 
are  reminded  of  others  of  the  same  school  of  thought, 
and  therefore  the  following  comparison  in  an  article 
in  the  Eclectic  Revieiv  (November,  1861)  may  prove 
interesting.  The  reader  must  judge  of  its  truth.  *  While 
Robertson  of  Brighton,'  says  the  reviewer,  'was  preach- 
ing his  sermons,  and  Archer  Butler  was  preparing  his 
Lectures  on  Philosophy,  Alfred  Vaughan  about  the  same 
age,  but  younger  than  either,  was  accumulating  material 
for,  and  putting  into  shape,  the  "Hours with  the  Mystics." 


Preface  to  tJw  TJiird  Edition.  xv 

He  died  within  a  year  or  two  of  their  departure,  and 
still  nearer  to  the  period  of  youth  than  those  extraor- 
dinary men.  His  name  suggests  their  names  to  the  mind 
— all  victims  to  the  fatal  thirty-four  and  thirty-seven. 
He  had  not  the  wonderful  touch  of  Robertson's  "vanished 
hand";  he  had  not  the  tenacity  of  muscle  and  fibre  of 
Archer  Butler;  but  he  combined  many  of  the  character- 
istics of  both,  and  added  that  which  gave  individuality 
to  his  genius.  He  had  not  the  fine  subtle  sense  of  in- 
sight possessed  by  Robertson  ;  he  had  not  the  rapid 
and  comprehensive  power  of  Butler.  They  again  had 
not  his  large  and  generous  culture.'  More  of  such 
favourable  criticisms  and  kindly  words  from  men  of  learn- 
ing might  be  quoted,  but  we  forbear.  The  task  of 
referring  to  such  sentiments  is  not  unnaturally  attrac- 
tive to  the  son  of  such  a  man  ;  but  it  is  simply 
desired  to  put  forward  this  book  once  again  on  its  own 
merits,  in  the  hope  that  there  are  still  many  who  will 
rightly  appreciate  the  labour  and  genius  to  which  it 
bears  witness. 

About  the  work  itself  it  will  be  necessary  to  say 
only  a  few  words. 

When  the  *  Hours  with  the  Mystics'  first  appeared 
it  traversed  ground  which  was  to  a  great  extent  un- 
trodden, at  any  rate  in  England.  Mysticism,  though 
a  favourite  study  of  the  author,  was  not  then,  and 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  now,  a  popular  subject. 
A  matter-of-fact  age  puts  such  ideas  on  one  side,  as 
something  too  weak  for  serious  consideration.  The 
majority  indeed  have  but  a  very  hazy  notion  as  to 
what  Mysticism  is  ;  they  only  have  an  idea  that  some- 
thing is  meant  which  is  very  inferior,  and  they  pass  it 


xvi  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 


by.  Well  has  Mr.  Maurice  said  that  such  terms 
(Mediceval  Phil.  p.  143)  'are  the  cold  formal  generalisa- 
tions of  a  late  period,  commenting  on  men  with  which 
it  has  no  sympathy.'  In  the  minds  of  thoughtful  men 
the  name  of  mystic  points  to  a  special  and  recognis- 
able tendency,  and  the  history  given  in  this  book  shows 
that  the  same  tendency  has  been  working  in  the  world 
for  ages  ; — Hindus  and  Persians,  Neoplatonists  and 
Schoolmen,  Anabaptists  and  Swedenborgians,  have  all 
felt  its  force.  The  main  principle  of  all  their  doctrine  was 
the  necessity  of  a  closer  union  with  the  Deity.  Among 
Christians, — with  whom  we  are  chiefly  concerned, — 
this  close  connection,  it  was  thought,  could  only  be 
g-ained  after  passing  through  stages  of  illumination  and 
purification  ;  and  progress  in  the  way  of  perfection  was 
to  be  made  not  by  labour  and  study,  but  by  solitude. 
and  asceticism.  In  these  volumes  this  doctrine  is 
exhibited  ;  especially  we  trace  the  influence  which 
the  pseudo-Dionysius  had  in  the  fourth  century  ;  how, 
under  his  guidance,  these  ideas  spread  in  the  East, 
and  thence  to  the  West ;  the  position  taken  up  by 
Mystics  against  the  Schoolmen,  and  the  condition  of 
Mysticism  at  the  time  of  the  Reformation.  These 
topics  are  interesting,  and  to  the  questions  which  must 
be  raised  in  connection  with  them  in  every  thoughtful 
mind,  it  is  hoped  that  the  reader  will  find  satisfactory 
answers  in  the  following  pages. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  field  over  which  the  reader  is 
taken  by  the  author  is  very  large.  It  is  believed  that 
though  there  have  been  during  recent  years  various  con- 
tributions made  to  the  literature  on  this  subject,  no  writer 
has  attempted  to  take  in   all  the  various  phases  which 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xvii 


are  pictured    in  this  book.      In  German  Mystics  soaie 
writers  have    found   a  congenial    theme  ;    others    have 
taught  us   more  about  the   mysterious  reh'gions  of  the 
East.       It    is,   we    think,    to  be    regretted    that    more 
attention    has    not  been  paid   to  the    Mystics    of   the 
Scholastic    period.      The    position    held   by    Hugo    of 
S.    Victor   and   his    followers    was   by    no    means    in- 
significant.     As    a   mystic,    Hugo   showed  that    it  was 
possible   to  combine  contemplation  with  common  sense 
and  learning.      In  an  age  when  Scholasticism  was  sub- 
mitting religion    to    cold    and    exact    logic,  it  was   like 
turning  from  some  dusty  road  into  a  quiet  grass-grown 
lane,  to  hear  of  devout  contemplation  leading  up  to  per- 
fect holiness  and  spiritual  knowledge.      Most  of  us  are 
ready  to  agree  with  these  men  when  they  maintain  that 
there  are  mysteries   of  Divine    Truth  which   cannot  be 
analysed    by  the  understanding,  but  which  can   be  em- 
braced by  thoughtful  and  reverent   contemplation.      So 
long  as   the   use   of   both   learning  and    devotion   was 
admitted,    Ave    are     able     to     sympathise    with     them. 
But  it  is  a  truism  to  say  that  the  tendency  of  any  move- 
ment is  to  go  to  extremes.      The  Mystics  of  this  period 
appear  to  have  recoiled  horror-struck  from  what  seemed 
to  them  rationalistic  or  materialistic  ideas.    In   that,  they 
might  be  right  enough.    But  starting  from  the  true  stand- 
point that  there  are  mysteries  in  the  Infinite  which  we 
finite  creatures  cannot  fathom  with  our  finite  minds,  they 
proceeded  to  the  extreme  of  putting  devotion  beforeknow- 
ledge.      Next,  they  thought  there  was  nothing  to  which 
they  could  not  attain  by  devout  yearning,  even  to  absorp- 
tion into  the    Deity.      The   logical   conclusion  of  these 
theories  tended  to  pantheism  :  those  who  discarded  logic 
VOL   I.  ^ 


xviii  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 

yielded  to  fanaticism.  Into  that  error  fell  most  of  the 
disciples  of  the  great  Scholastic  Mystics.  And  has  not 
the  like  occurred  elsewhere  in  history  ?  Putting  religion 
out  of  the  question,  Wycliffe  may  have  been  a  socialist, 
but  he  was  far  behind  his  followers.  But  as  such  a  falling 
away  on  the  part  of  the  disciple  cannot  justly 
take  from  the  character  of  the  master,  so  we  would 
still  say  a  word  for  Hugo  of  S.  Victor.  A  man  whose 
aim  in  life  was  the  knowledge  of  God,  and  who  worked 
for  that  end  with  courage  and  diligence,  is  not  a 
character  to  be  neglected.  *  His  name,'  says  Mr,  Maurice 
(MedijEval  Phil.  p.  148),  'has  been  less  remembered  in 
later  times  than  it  deserves,  because  it  has  been  over- 
shadowed by  those  of  other  men  who  met  some  of  the 
tastes  of  the  age  more  successfully,  though  their  actual 
power  was  not  greater  than  his,  perhaps  not  equal  to  it' 

In  Hugo  of  S.  Victor  and  his  predecessors,  Bernard 
and  Anselm,  we  see  the  combination  of  Scholasticism 
and  Mysticism.  To  some  extent  they  were  able  to 
keep  a  middle  course.  They  would  not  allow  their 
reason  to  run  riot  over  sacred  mysteries,  and  their  firm 
hold  on  the  articles  of  the  Catholic  faith  prevented  them 
from  sinking  into  vague  pantheism. 

Among  the  Mystics  of  Germany  who  come  next 
in  the  hasty  survey  we  are  here  attempting,  there  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  so  much  steadiness.  We  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  the  Scholastic  Mystics  were 
perfect  ;  they  were  not  free  from  exaggerations,  but 
their  extravagances  appear  to  us  less  dangerous  than  were 
those  of  the  old  German  Mystics.  The  names  of  the 
leading  German  Mystics  are  more  familiar  to  most  people 
than  are  any  others.     Who  has  not  heard  of  Tauler .-' 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xix 


What  the  influence  of  his  teaching  was  is  shown  in 
the  following  pages.  He  may  be  exonerated  from  all 
charge  of  pantheism,  as  may,  also,  be  Ruysbroek 
and  Suso  ;  but  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  the 
writings  left  by  Eckart  acquit  him  of  all  connection 
with  these  errors.  He  has  been  claimed  as  orthodox 
by  churchmen,  and  as  a  pantheist  by  many 
pantheists  ;  and  extracts  can  be  quoted  from  his  works 
in  support  of  either  theory.  Eckart's  position  was 
difficult.  The  general  temper  of  the  world  at  the  time 
was  restless  ;  the  errors  and  abuses  of  the  Church  drove 
earnest  men  to  look  within.  They  turned  their  attention 
to  personal  holiness,  to  the  neglect  of  the  fact  that  they 
had  any  duties  towards  the  Christian  brotherhood  at 
large.  To  urge  his  hearers  to  a  closer  union  Avith  God 
was  a  noble  subject  for  a  preacher.  But  must  it  not  be 
confessed  that  Eckart  had  gone  too  far  when  he  could 
utter  such  words  as  these,  'a  truly  divine  man  has  been 
so  made  one  with  God  that  henceforth  he  does  not  think 
of  God  or  look  for  God  outside  himself.'"'  His  teaching 
certainly  approached  often  towards  the  brink  of  the  abyss 
of  pantheism,  and  as  Archbishop  Trench  says  (Med.  Ch. 
Hist.,  p.  348),  'sometimes  it  does  not  stop  short  of  the 
brink.' 

Between  these  two  schools,  the  Scholastic  and  the 
German,  many  comparisons  may  be  made.  The  effect  of 
them  on  the  Catholic  Church  as  it  then  existed  was  very 
different :  the  teaching  of  Anselm  and  Bernard  was  cal- 
culated to  strengthen  the  Church,  while  that  of  the  later 
school  was  not.  Anselm  and  his  friends  were  aware  of 
the  necessity  for  personal  holiness,  but  they  were  always 
willing  for  their  disciples  to  climb  the  road  to  perfection 


XX  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 


by  the  help  of  the  means  of  grace  held  out  in  the  Church, 
as  well  as  by  devout  contemplation.  The  Germans,  on 
the  contrary,  felt  there  was  something  wrong  with  the 
existing  ecclesiastical  arrangem.ents,  and  through  indiffer- 
ence to  them  drew  their  disciples  away  from  many  prac- 
tices which  were  then  accounted  necessary  to  salvation. 
By  this  disregard  for  rites  and  ceremonies,  and  by  their 
use  of  the  German  language  in  their  teaching,  they  paved 
the  way  for  the  Reformers,  and  that  is  a  great  claim  on 
our  respect.  At  the  same  time,  we  cannot  help  thinking 
their  hazy  ideas  rather  chilling.  Surely  the  highest 
point  in  the  history  of  Mysticism  had  been  reached  and 
passed  when  the  struggle  to  make  reason  and  imagination 
work  together  gave  way  to  mere  ecstatic   rhapsody. 

Quietism  is  discussed  in  the  second  volume  at  consider- 
ablelength;  thefamiliar  names  of  Madame  Guyon,Bossuet 
and  Fenelon  are  brought  before  us.  The  story  is  a  sad 
one.  There  may  be  some  who  think  that  Madame  Guyon 
was  not  worthy  of  the  friendship  of  such  a  saint  as 
Fenleon, — that  must  be  a  matter  of  opinion;  but  on 
one  point  all  will  agree,  the  conduct  of  Bossuet  under 
the  circumstances  was  not  very  creditable.  Those  who 
have  a  high  opinion  of  the  piety  of  Bossuet  will  confess 
that  he  does  not  appear  in  the  narrative  to  advantage, 
even  though  they  may  not  be  able  to  agree  with  all  the 
statements  the  author  of  this  work  makes  about  the 
Bishop  of  Meaux.  Fenelon  was  tender,  gentle,  loving, 
And  Bossuet  was  firm,  stern,  and  strict,  but  they  both  did 
their  best  to  serve  God  in  their  relative  positions,  and 
He,  Avhose  servants  they  were,  will  judge  them. 

Glancing,  then,  through  the  entire  length  of  this 
history,  we  see  that  the  great  principle  which  appears  to 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xxl 


have  actuated  all  Mystics  was  a  desire  for  union  with 
God.  This  they  tried  to  cultivate  by  seclusion  and 
asceticism.  They  neglected  social  duties  and  fled  away 
into  monasteries  and  deserts;  and  sometimes  their  pi-ac- 
tical  life  was  not  equal  in  holiness  to  the  reported  spirit- 
uality of  their  ecstasies.  Their  excesses  of  mortification 
appear  almost  ludicrous  when  they  themselves  alone 
are  concerned,  but  when  their  mad  conduct  is  seen  affect- 
ing others  our  feelings  grow  stronger.  But  let 
us  speak  gently  of  such  eccentricities.  These  good 
people,  for  good  they  certainly  were,  could  not  appre- 
ciate the  fact  that  God  was  in  the  busy  town  as  well  as 
in  the  lonely  desert.  They  heard  no  voice  within  them 
urging  them  to  treat  a  beggar  kindly  for  the  sake  of  the 
Son  of  God.  Some  of  them  were  very  charitable,  but 
what  was  the  nature  of  their  charity.''  Was  it  not  simply 
done  for  their  own  advantage  .'*  Did  they  really  think  of 
charity  as  an  act  done  to  God,  not  meritorious,  but  as  being 
an  offering  to  their  Heavenly  Father  of  His  own  .''  It  is 
to  be  feared  that  that  was  not  the  general  idea.  The  more 
extravagant  Mystics  appear  really  to  have  been  horribly 
selfish.  They  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  closer  union 
for  which  they  longed  is  not  attained  by  efforts  to  '  faire 
son  salut,'  or  by  sitting  still  in  the  comfortable  assurance 
of  an  imputed  righteousness.  Then  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  all  these  frantic  efforts  or  dreamy  ecstasies 
were  made  with  a  view  to  union  with  God.  And  this 
'union'  was  of  a  novel  kind — in  many  cases  there  was 
a  notion  of  an  absorption  into  the  Deity,  together 
with  other  ideas  which  clearly  involved  erroneous  views  of 
God.  It  was  the  old  story  of  carrying  one  particular 
article  of  faith  or  pious  opinion    to  extremes,  and  this 


xxii  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 


to  the  disregard,  more  or  less  complete,  of  all  else. 
The  same  thing  had  happened  before  in  the  history  of  the 
Christian  Church.  It  is  not  for  us  to  lay  down  a  de- 
finition of  what  Is  true  union  with  God;  but  we 
may  say  that  the  fellowship  which  all  true  believers 
enjoy  with  the  Father  through  the  Son  was  not  enough 
for  the  Mystic.  He  struggled  and  panted  for  more. 
How  each  one  succeeded  or  failed  the  individual  reader 
of  the  work  must  judge,  and  decide  for  himself. 

Before  going  further,  it  may  be  well  to  refer  to 
an  attack  which  was  made  on  the  author  for  his  treatment 
of  mediaeval  saints  and  of  the  stories  connected  with  them. 
Obviously,  a  man  who  sympathises  with  an  emotional 
form  of  religion  would  not  be  inclined  to  confine  these 
enthusiasts  within  such  narrow  limits  as  would  one  of  a 
colder  temperament.  This  may  explain  the  feelings  of 
the  critics  in  question.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the 
ascetic  and  the  nun,  with  their  mortifications  and  trances, 
had  not  for  the  author  much  attraction.  Even  the  style 
in  w^iich  the  book  was  written  may  have  led  him  to  write 
too  lightly  on  some  details  of  this  period;  but  if  such  were 
the  case,  he  knew,  as  well  as  any  critic,  that  these  people 
were  trying  to  do  their  duty,  even  if  they  failed.  The 
ascetic  who  thought  he  had  no  duty  in  the  world,  and 
therefore  ran  away  and  refused  to  'fight  a  battle  for  the 
Lord,'  and  the  '  hysterical  sister,'  are  rather  subjects  for 
pity  than  for  jest ;  and  contrary  as  all  the  author's  convic- 
tions may  have  been  to  asceticism,  he  would  rather  have 
wept  over  their  strange  acts  and  mad  fancies  than  scoffed 
at  them.  We  feel  convinced  that  any  harsh  remarks 
should  be  taken  as  referring  to  the  system  which  brought 
its  victims  into  such  a  condition,  and  not  to  the  victims 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xxiii 


themselves.  Though  disapproving  of  the  system,  the 
author  would  never  have  withheld  his  admiration  from 
any  individual  act  of  self-sacrifice,  when  it  was  done 
from  a  right  motive  and  was  the  offering  of  a  loving 
heart. 

The  fact  that  this  book  is  again  published  by  request 
is  a  sign  that  the  author's  labours  have  been  appreciated 
and  that  his  name  is  not  forgotten.  '  Some  men,'  he 
once  wrote  in  a  letter,  'who  have  died  young,  have  lived 
far  longer  than  others  who  have  outpassed  their  three- 
score years  and  ten.  Life  consists  not  in  the  abundance 
of  things  a  man  possesseth,  nor  in  the  abundance  of 
things  a  man  doeth,  but  in  the  abundance  of  thoughts 
he  thinks  leading  toward  some  special  result  in  this 
world  or  the  next'  So,  again,  he  writes  in  his  diary, 
*  Reputation — consider  it,  soul  of  mine,  not  as  an  end, 
but  as  a  means  of  sowing  right  thoughts  and  feelings 
among  thy  fellows.  Strive  towards  power  over  the 
thoughts  of  men — power  that  may  be  solemnly  used 
in  God's  sight  as  being  a  faithful  steward  for  His  glory. 
Have  I  a  brain  that  must  be  busy,  a  will  in  this 
direction  which — with  all  my  vacillation  elsewhere — has 
been  and  is  unconquerable }  Let  me  pray  to  use  it 
with  reverent  lowliness  of  heart  as  a  talent  committed 
to  me,  fearing  to  misuse  it,  to  allow  any  corner  of  the 
estate  to  be  waste,  or  any  wain  of  the  harvest  to  fall 
into  the  enemy's  hand.' 

If  it  now  be  asked,  what  are  the  uses  of  this  book, 
we  may  answer  that  it  has  proved  helpful  as  a  history 
of  religious  thought.  Further,  it  is  hoped  that  it 
has  been,  and  still  will  be,  useful  on  account  of  the 
moral  lessons  to  be   drawn  from  the   historical  facts. 


xxiv  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition. 


It  may  also  be  used  as  showing  how  necessary  it  is 
to  associate  Christianity  with  our  daily  lives  ;  how  desir- 
able it  is  that  preachers  should  avoid  confining  their 
hearers'  attention  to  their  own  individual  souls.  And  then 
it  further  teaches  that,  while  we  take  religion  into  the 
world,  we  may  learn  also  to  value  more  the  privileges  of 
quiet  and  retired  communion  with  God.  In  these  practical 
modern  days  the  idea  of  contemplation  appears  out  of 
place ;  and  yet  it  was  our  Divine  Master  who  said,  '  Come 
apart  into  a  desert  place  and  rest  awhile.'  Perhaps  the 
world  would  have  been  better  if  the  hermits  had  paid 
more  attention  to  the  little  word  '  aivhile!  But  the 
bustle  of  the  present  day  is  just  as  likely  to  make  us 
forget  the  injunction  altogether. 

The  book's  republication  now  seems  to  have  a  special 
opportuneness,  for  in  much  of  the  more  spiritual  pro- 
gress going  on  around  us  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
Mysticism.  As  in  times  past  men  sought  refuge  in 
devout  contemplation  from  Materialism,  so  now  a  horror 
of  Rationalism  and  a  sense  of  injustice  are  likely  to 
drive  many  to  the  same  extreme.  Whether  or  not  there 
has  been  any  undue  extravagance  developed  as  yet,  it  is 
not  for  us  to  decide.  But  this  history  will  show  how  easy 
and  possible  it  is  to  carry  a  good  principle  beyond  its 
proper  limits. 

Before  concluding,  one  further  personal  word  must  be 
permitted.  No  preface  to  this  book,  however  short, 
would  be  complete  without  at  least  a  reference  to  her 
who  helped  the  author  in  his  labours  as  only  a  good 
wife  can,  and  who  has  taught  his  son  to  love  God  and 
reverence   his  father's  memory  as  only  a  good   mother 


Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.  xxv 

can.  To  her,  the  reappearance  of  this  work  causes  a 
ray  of  light  amidst  a  life  darkened  by  much  trouble 
and  suffering. 

It  need  scarcely  be  added  that  the  writer  of  these 
words  esteems  it  an  honour  to  be  in  any  way  connected 
with  his  father's  labours.  What  the  loss  of  such  a 
father  has  been  to  him  cannot  be  described  in  words. 
The  following  remarks  of  a  clerical  friend  of  the  author 
may  partly  express  the  writer's  present  feelings:  'He 
is  gone,  young  in  years — but  for  him  we  may  not 
lament  the  dispensation — since  assuredly  he  was  not  only 
mature  in  intellect  but  rich  in  grace.  I  delight  to 
think  of  him  as  one  of  that  "  blessed  company,"  the 
Church  above — to  the  perfect  love  and  friendship  of 
some  members  of  which  I  love  to  look  forward,  if  by 
God's  grace  I  may  be  found  worthy  to  attain  to  it.' 

This  book  never  had  any  public  dedication.  It  was  the 
work  of  the  best  years  of  a  life  offered  to  God.  What 
was  not  done  for  the  first  edition  will  not  be  done  now  ; 
but  let  these  few  lines  of  the  author's  son  be  an  offering 
to  the  glory  of  God — to  the  memory  of  his  father — to 
the  self-devotion  of  his  mother. 

In  one  of  the  author's  poems  is  the  following  verse 
which  is  strangely  appropriate  at  this  place: — 

Let  us  toil  on — the  work  we  leave  behind  us, 

Though  incomplete,  God's  hand  will  yet  embalm, 

And  use  it  some  way  ;  and  the  news  will  find  us 
In  heaven  above,  and  sweeten  endless  calm. 

Wycliffe  Vaughan. 

LiTTLEMORE,    NEAR   OXFORD, 

November,  1 879. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


THE  subject  of  the  present  work  is  one  which  will 
generally  be  thought  to  need  some  words  of 
explanation,  if  not  of  apology.  Mysticism  is  almost 
everywhere  synonymous  with  what  is  most  visionary  in 
religion  and  most  obscure  in  speculation.  But  a  history 
of  Mysticism — old  visions  and  old  obscurities — who  is 
bold  enough  to  expect  a  hearing  for  that  }  Is  the 
hopeful  present,  struggling  toward  clear  intelligence,  to 
pause  and  hear  how,  some  hundreds  of  years  ago,  men 
made  themselves  elaborately  unintelligible  .''  Is  our 
straining  after  action  and  achievement  to  be  relaxed 
while  you  relate  the  way  in  which  Mystics  reduced 
themselves  to  utter  inactivity  .■'  While  we  are  rejoicing 
in  escape  from  superstitious  twilight,  is  it  well  to  recall 
from  Limbo  the  phantasms  of  forgotten  dreamers,  and 
to  people  our  sunshine  with  ghostly  shadows  }  And 
since  Mysticism  is  confessedly  more  or  less  a  mistake, 
were  it  not  better  to  point  out  to  us,  if  you  can,  a 
something  true  and  wise,  rather  than  offer  us  your  por- 
trait of  an  exaggeration  and  a  folly  1 

Such  are  some  of  the  questions  which  it  will  be 
natural  to  ask.  The  answer  is  at  hand.  First  of  all, 
Mysticism,  though  an  error,  has  been  associated,  for  the 
most  part,  with  a  measure  of  truth  so  considerable,  that 


xxviii  Preface  to  the  First  Edition. 


its  good  has  greatly  outweighed  its  evil.  On  this 
ground  alone,  its  history  should  be  judged  of  interest. 
For  we  grow  more  hopeful  and  more  charitable  as  we 
mark  how  small  a  leaven  of  truth  may  prove  an  anti- 
dote to  error,  and  how  often  the  genuine  fervour  of  the 
spirit  has  all  but  made  good  the  failures  of  the  in- 
tellect. 

In  the  religious  history  of  almost  every  age  and 
country,  we  meet  with  a  certain  class  of  minds,  impa- 
tient of  mere  ceremonial  forms  and  technical  distinc- 
tions, who  have  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  heart  against 
prescription,  and  yielded  themselves  to  the  most 
vehement  impulses  of  the  soul,  in  its  longing  to  escape 
from  the  sign  to  the  thing  signified — from  the  human 
to  the  divine.  The  story  of  such  an  ambition,  with  its 
disasters  and  its  glories,  will  not  be  deemed,  by  any 
thoughtful  mind,  less  worthy  of  record  than  the  career 
of  a  conqueror.  Through  all  the  changes  of  doctrine 
and  the  long  conflict  of  creeds,  it  is  interesting  to  trace 
the  unconscious  unity  of  mystical  temperam.ents  in 
every  communion.  It  can  scarcely  be  without  some 
profit  that  we  essay  to  gather  together  and  arrange  this 
company  of  ardent  natures  ;  to  account  for  their  har- 
mony and  their  differences,  to  ascertain  the  extent  of 
their  influence  for  good  and  evil,  to  point  out  their 
errors,  and  to  estimate  even  dreams  impossible  to  cold 
or  meaner  spirits. 

These  Mystics  have  been  men  of  like  passions  and 
in  like  perplexities  wM'th  many  of  ourselves.  Within 
them  and  without  them  were  temptations,  mysteries, 
aspirations  like  our  own.  A  change  of  names,  or  an 
interval  of  time,  does  not  free  us  from  liability  to  mis- 


Preface  to  the  First  Edition.  xxix 


takes  in  their  direction,  or  to  worse,  it  may  be,  in  a 
direction  opposite.  To  distinguish  between  the  genuine 
and  the  spurious  in  their  opinion  or  their  life,  is  to 
erect  a  guide-post  on  the  very  road  we  have  ourselves 
to  tread.  It  is  no  idle  or  pedantic  curiosity  which 
would  try  these  spirits  by  their  fruits,  and  see  what 
mischief  and  what  blessing  grew  out  of  their  miscon- 
ceptions and  their  truth.  We  learn  a  lesson  for  our- 
selves, as  we  mark  how  some  of  these  Mystics  found 
God  within  them  after  vainly  seeking  Him  without — 
hearkened  happily  to  that  witness  for  Him  which  speaks 
in  our  conscience,  affections,  and  desires  :  and,  recog- 
nising love  by  love,  finally  rejoiced  in  a  faith  which  was 
rather  the  life  of  their  heart  than  the  conclusion  of 
their  logic.  We  learn  a  lesson  for  ourselves,  as  we  see 
one  class  among  them  forsaking  common  duties  for  the 
feverish  exaltation  of  a  romantic  saintship,  and  another 
persisting  in  their  conceited  rejection  of  the  light  with- 
out, till  they  have  turned  into  darkness  their  light 
within. 

But  the  interest  attaching  to  Mysticism  is  by  no 
means  merely  historic.  It  is  active  under  various  forms 
in  our  own  time.  It  will  certainly  play  its  part  in  the 
future.  The  earlier  portion  of  this  work  is  occupied, 
it  must  be  confessed,  with  modes  of  thought  and  life 
extremely  remote  from  anything  with  which  we  are 
now  familiar.  But  only  by  such  inquiry  into  those  by- 
gone speculations  could  the  character  and  influence  of 
Christian  Mysticism  be  duly  estimated,  or  even  ac- 
counted for.  Those  preliminaries  once  past,  the  reader 
will  find  himself  in  contact  with  opinions  and  events 
less  removed  from  present  experience. 


XXX  Preface  to  the  First  Edition. 


The  attempt  to  exhibit  the  history  of  a  certain 
phase  of  religious  life  through  the  irregular  medium  of 
fiction,  dialogue,  and  essay,  may  appear  to  some  a  plan 
too  fanciful  for  so  grave  a  theme.  But  it  must  be  re- 
membered, that  any  treatment  of  such  a  subject  which ; 
precluded  a  genial  exercise  of  the  imagination  would  ' 
be  necessarily  inadequate,  and  probably  unjust.  The 
method  adopted  appeared  also  best  calculated  to  afford 
variety  and  relief  to  topics  unlikely  in  themselves  to 
attract  general  interest.  The  notes  which  are  appended 
have  been  made  more  copious  than  was  at  first  designed, 
in  order  that  no  confusion  may  be  possible  between  fact 
and  fiction,  and  that  every  statement  of  importance 
might  be  sustained  by  its  due  authority.  It  is  hoped 
that,  in  this  way,  the  work  may  render  its  service,  not 
only  to  those  who  deem  secondary  information  quite 
sufficient  on  such  subjects,  but  also  to  the  scholar,  who 
will  thus  be  readily  enabled  to  test  for  himself  my  con- 
clusions, and  who  will  possess,  in  the  extracts  given,  a 
kind  of  anthology  from  the  writings  of  the  leading 
Mystics.  To  those  familiar  with  such  inquiries  it  may 
perhaps  be  scarcely  necessary  to  state  that  I  have  in 
no  instance  allowed  myself  to  cite  as  an  authority  any 
passage  which  I  have  not  myself  examined,  with  its 
context,  in  the  place  to  which  I  refer.  In  the  Chronicle 
of  Adolf  Arnsicin  the  minimum  of  invention  has  been 
employed,  and  no  historical  personage  there  introduced 
utters  any  remark  bearing  upon  Mysticism  for  which 
ample  warrant  cannot  be  brought  forward.  Wherever, 
in  the  conversations  at  Ashfield,  any  material  difference 
of  opinion  is  expressed  by  the  speakers,  Atherton  may 
be  understood  as  setting  forth  what  we  ourselves  deem 


Preface  to  the  First  Edition.  xxxi 

the  truth  of  the  matter.  Some  passages  in  these 
volumes,  and  the  substance  of  the  chapters  on  Quietism, 
have  made  their  appearance  previously  in  the  pages  of 
one  of  our  quarterly  periodicals. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  my  design  does  not 
require  of  me  that  I  should  give  an  account  of  all  who 
are  anywhere  known  to  have  entertained  mystical 
speculation,  or  given  themselves  to  mystical  practice.  I 
have  endeavoured  to  portray  and  estimate  those  who 
have  made  epochs  in  the  history  of  Mysticism,  those 
who  are  fair  representatives  of  its  stages  or  transitions, 
those  whose  enthusiasm  has  been  signally  benign  or 
notoriously  baneful.  I  have  either  mentioned  by  name 
only,  or  passed  by  in  silence,  the  followers  or  mere 
imitators  of  such  men,  and  those  Mystics  also  whose 
obscure  vagaries  neither  produced  any  important  result 
nor  present  any  remarkable  phaenomena.  Only  by 
resolute  omission  on  this  principle  has  it  been  possible 
to  preserve  in  any  measure  that  historical  perspective 
so  essential  to  the  truth  of  such  delineations. 

The  fact  that  the  ground  I  traverse  lies  almost  wholly 
unoccupied,  might  be  pleaded  on  behalf  of  my  under- 
taking. The  history  of  Mysticism  has  been  but  in- 
cidentally touched  by  English  writers.  Germany  pos- 
sesses many  monographs  of  unequal  value  on  detached 
parts  of  the  subject.  Only  recently  has  a  complete 
account  of  Christian  Mysticism  appeared,  at  all  on  a 
level  with  the  latest  results  of  historical  inquiry.^  This 
laborious  compilation  presents  the  dry  bones  of  doctrinal 
opinion,  carefully  separated    from   actual  life— a  grave 


Die  Christliche  Mysiik.    Von  Dr.  Ludwig  Noack.     Konigsberg. 


xxxii  Preface  to  the  Second  Edition. 


defect  in  any  branch  of  ecclesiastical  history,  absolutely 
fatal  to  intelligibility  and  readableness  in  this.  If  we 
except  the  researches  of  the  Germans  into  their  own 
mediaeval  Mysticism,  it  may  be  truly  said  that  the  little 
done  in  England  has  been  better  done  than  the  much 
in  Germany.  The  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platonists  has 
found  a  powerful  painterin  Mr.  Kingsley.  The  Mysticism 
of  Bernard  meets  with  a  wise  and  kindly  critic  in  Sir 
James  Stephen. 

If,  then,  the  subject  of  this  book  be  neither  in- 
significant in  itself,  nor  exhausted  by  the  labours  of 
others,  my  enterprise  at  least  is  not  unworthy,  however 
questionable  its  success. 

The  Author. 
February  ij'i,  1856. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


THIS  work  has  been  some  time  out  of/ print.  It 
was  my  hope  that  the  Second  Edition  might 
have  been  brought  within  a  single  volume.  But  that 
has  not  been  practicable. 

The  present  edition  has  been  revised  by  the  Author, 
and  some  fifty  pages  of  new  matter  have  been  in- 
troduced. This  new  matter  will  be  found  mainly  in 
the  Sixth  Chapter  of  the  Sixth  Book.  In  that  en- 
larged treatment  of  the  topic  of  "German  Mysticism  in 
the  Fourteenth    Century"   the    reader  will  meet  with  a 


Preface  to  the  Second  Edition.  xxxiii 

slight  recurrence  of  former  trains  of  thought,  which  the 
Author  might  have  been  incHned  to  suppress,  but  with 
which  I  have  not  deemed  it  well  to  intermeddle.  It 
will  be  seen  that  the  design  of  the  supplementary  mat- 
ter is,  in  part,  as  a  reply  to  criticisms  which  seemed  to 
call  for  some  such  explanation  ;  and,  in  part,  that 
points  touched  upon  elsewhere  might  be  given  with 
more  fulness. 

To  see  this  Second  Edition  through  the  press  has 
been  the  work  of  one  whose  intelligent  sympathy  and 
patient  effort  assisted  and  encouraged  the  Author,  in 
many  ways,  in  the  prosecution  of  his  studies,  and  who 
now  finds  the  solace  of  her  loneliness  in  treasuring  up 
the  products  of  his  mind,  and  in  cherishing  the  dear 
ones  he  has  left  to  her  wise  love  and  oversight. 

If  Mysticism  b^  often  a  dream,  it  is  commonly  a 
dream  in  the  right  direction.  Its  history  presents  one 
of  the  most  significant  chapters  in  the  story  of 
humanity. 

Robert  Vaughan. 
September  ph,  i860. 


VOL, 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  L 


BOOK  I.— INTRODUCTION. 
CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Henry  Atherton 3 

Lionel  Gower 5 

Frank  Willoughby 7 

CHAPTER  II. 

Connection  of  the  Arts     .........        9 

Mysticism  in  an  Emblem 1 1 

History  .         .         .        .         .         .         .        .        ,  '      .        .15 

CHAPTER  III. 

Etymology 17 

Definitions       ...........       2ts. 

/'  Christian  Mysticism .  .       22  J 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Causes  of  Mysticism  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .27 

Reaction  against  Formalisni     .  .  .  .  .         .         .  .28 

Weariness  of  the  World  .........       30 

The  Fascination  of  Mystery 31 

CHAPTER  V. 

Classification  of  Mystics 35 

Theopathetic  Mysticism 37 


xxxvi  Contents. 

PAGB 

Theosophy 39 

Theurgy 45 

BOOK  II.— EARLY  ORIENTAL  MYSTICISM. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Bagvat-Gita £1 

CHAPTER  II. 

Characteristics  of  Hindoo  Mysticism        .         .         •         •        •         .  54 

The  Yogis 57 

BOOK  III.— THE  MYSTICISM  OF  THE 
NEO-PLATONISTS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Philo 64 

The  Therapeutoe 66 

Asceticism 67 

CHAPTER  II. 

Flotimis          «....• 71 

Alexandria 72 

Eclecticism 75 

Platonism  and  Neo-PIatonism 76 

Plotinus  on  Ecstasy 81 

CHAPTER  III. 

Neo-PIatonism  in  the  Christian  Church    ......  85 

Analogies  between  Ancient  and  Modern  Speculation         ...  87 

Intuition 89 

Theurgy -91 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Porphyry 94 

Philosophy  seeks  to  rescue  Polytheism     .         .         ,         .         ,         .96 

Theurgic  Mysticism  ot  lamblichus   ..-..,.  100 

Proclus ■     !         .        .         .        ,  105 


Contents.  xxxvii 

BOOK  IV.— MYSTICISM  IN  THE  GREEK  CHURCH. 
CHAPTER  I. 


PA.6E 


Saint  Anthony j^p 

The  Pseudo-Dionysius ^  1 1  j 

CHAPTER  II. 
The  Hierarchies  of  Dionysius  .         ,         .         .         ,         ,         ,         .114 

The  Via  Negativa  and  the  Via  Affirniativa       ,         .         .         ,         .  IIS 

Virtues  human  and  superhuman 121 

Stagnation       •••....,...  122 

BOOK  v.— MYSTICISM  IN  THE  LATIN  CHURCH. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Intellectual  Activity  of  the  West      .         .        .        ,        ,        ,        .  i  io 

The  Services  of  Platonism 1,2 

Clairvaux         .......  t-^o 

The  Mysticism  of  Bernard jog 

Mysticism  opposed  to  Scholasticism 1 41 

Moderation  of  Bernard j^j^ 


CHAPTER  II. 

Hugo  of  St.  Victor 

Mysticism  combined  with  Scholasticism  .         , 

The  Eye  of  Contemplation       .... 

Richard  of  St.  Victor       ..... 

The  Six  Stages  of  Contemplation     . 

The  Truth  and  the  Error  of  Mystical  Abstraction 

The  Inner  Light  and  the  Outer        , 

The  Faculty  of  Intuition 


153 

154 
157 
159 
162 
164 
166 
169 


BOOK  VI.— GERMAN  MYSTICISM  IN  THE 
FOURTEENTH  CENTURY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Chronicle  ol  Adolf  Amstein  of  Strar.burg  ,         .         ,         ,         .  181 

Hermann  of  Fritzlar  and  his  Legends        ..,,..  182 

The  Heretics  of  the  Rhineland         .         ,         ,         ,         ,         .         .  1S4 

The  Preaching  of  Master  Eckart      .•».,,  188 


xxxviii  Contents. 


FAOB 

From  the  Known  God  to  the  Unknown    .,,,,.  189 

Disinterested  Love            ••....,.,  193 

Eckart's  Story  of  the  Beggar 107 

Ju-ju X99 

The  Nameless  Wild         , ,  201 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Doctrine  of  EcTcart  discussed     .......  204 

Resemblance  to  Hegel     .........  206 


Pantheism  Old  and  New, 


209 


CHAPTER  III. 


The  Interdict ....%..,,.,     214 

Henry  of  Nordlingen        ....         .        .        .        .        ,     216 

Insurrection  in  Strasburg 218 


The  Friends  of  God 


224 


Tauler  on  the  Image  of  God    .        , 226 


CHAPTER  IV. 

233 


Tauler's  Disappearance 230 

His  Disgrace 

His  Restoration 


234 

TJie  People  comforted  and  the  Pope  deiied 236 

CHAPTER  V. 

Nicholas  of  Basle  and  Tauler ,  239 

The  Theology  of  Tauler  .........  244 

His  Advice  to  Mystics 248 

Estimate  of  his  Doctrine 25 1 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Further  Thoughts  on  Tauler  and  Middle- Age  Mysticism  .         ,        .  260 

Tests  of  Mysticism 268 

Spiritual  Influence 272 


Views  of  God  and  the  Universe 


277 


Immanence  of  God  .         .........     280 

Montanism      ...........     284 


Ground  of  the  Soul 
Origen  and  Tauler  . 


291 
302 


V 


Contents. 


xxxix 


Luther  and  Tauler  .... 
Teufelsdrockh  .        .        .        .         , 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Black  Death  .... 
The  Flagellants  .... 
A  Visit  to  Ruysbroek  at  Griinthal  , 
Euysbroek  on  Mystical  Union 
Heretical  Mystics  .... 
Ecclesiastical  Corruption  .         , 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Heinrich  Suso         .         . 
His  Austerities         .         . 
His  Visions     .         .        . 
His  Adventures 
The  Monks  of  Mount  Athos 


PAOB 

304 
307 


313 
316 

325 
328 
330 
333 


341 
343 
.H5 
348 
356 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Nicholas  of  Basle 359 

Brigitta 361 

Angela  de  Foligni   ..........  362 

Catharine  of  Siena  ..........  364 

The  "  German  Theology" 366 

The  "  Imitation  of  Christ"       ^         ......         .  367 

Gerson    ............  36S 


BOOK    THE    FIRST 


INTRODUCTION 


VOL.  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Wie  fruchlbiir  ist  der  kleinste  Kreis, 
W'enn  man  ihn  wolil  zu  pflegen  weiss. ' 

Goethe. 

T  T  was  on  the  evening  of  a  November  day  that  three  friends 
sat  about  their  after-dinner  table,  chatting  over  their  wine 
and  wahiuts,  while  the  fire  with  its  huge  log  crackled  and 
sparkled,  and  the  wind  without  moaned  about  the  corners  of 
the  house. 

Everyone  is  aware  that  authors  have  in  their  studies  an  un- 
limited supply  of  rings  of  Gyges,  coats  of  darkness,  tarn-caps, 
and  other  means  of  invisibility, — that  they  have  the  key  to  every 
house,  and  can  hear  and  see  words  and  actions  the  most  remote. 
Come  with  me,  then,  kindly  reader,  and  let  us  look  and  listen 
unseen  ;  we  have  free  leave  ;  and  you  must  know  these  gentle- 
men better. 

First  of  all,  the  host.  See  him  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and 
looking  into  the  fire,  one  hand  unconsciously  smoothing  with 
restless  thumb  and  finger  the  taper  stem  of  his  wineglass,  the 
other  playing  with  the  ears  of  a  favourite  dog.  He  appears 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  is  tall,  but  loses  something  of  his  real 
height  by  a  student's  stoop  about  the  shoulders.  Those  decided 
almost  shaggy  eyebrows  he  has  would,  lead  you  to  expect  quick, 
piercing  eyes, — the  eyes  of  the  observant  man  of  action.  But 
now  that  he  looks  towards  us,  you  see  instead  eyes  of  hazel, 
large,  slow-rolling,  often  dreamy  in  their  gaze, — such  for  size 
and  lustre  as  Homer  gives  to  ox-eyed  Juno.     The  mouth,  too, 


How  fruitful  may  the  smallest  circle  grow, 
If  we  the  secret  of  its  culture  know. 


B  2 


Introduction.  [«•  J- 


and  the  nose  are  delicately  cut.  Their  outline  indicates  taste 
rather  than  energy.  Yet  that  massive  jaw,  again,  gives  promise 
of  quiet  power,— betokens  a  strength  of  that  sort,  most  pro- 
bably, which  can  persevere  in  a  course  once  chosen  with  indo- 
mitable steadiness,  but  is  not  an  agile  combative  force,  inventive 
in  assaults  and  rejoicing  in  adventurous  leadership.  Men  of 
his  species  resemble  fountains,  whose  Avater-column  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind  may  drive  aslant,  or  scatter  in  spray  across  the 
lawn,  but — the  violence  once  past— they  play  upward  as  truly 
and  as  strong  as  ever. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  pity  that  this  Henry  Atherton  is  so  rich  as  he 
is,  — owns  his  Ashfield  House,  with  its  goodly  grounds,  and  has 
never  been  forced  into  active  professional  life,  with  its  rough 
collisions  and  straining  anxieties.     Abundance  of  leisure  is  a 
trial  to  which  few  men  are  equal.     Gray  was  in  the  right  when 
he  said  that  something  more  of  genius  than  common  was  re- 
quired  to  teach  a  man  how  to  employ  himself.     My  friend 
became  early  his  own   task-master,   and  labours  harder  from 
choice  than  many  from  necessity.     To  high  attainment  as  a 
classical  scholar  he  has  added  a  critical  acquaintance  with  the 
literature  and  the  leading  languages  of  modern  Europe.     Up- 
stairs is  a  noble  library,  rich  especially  in  historical  authorities, 
and  there  Atherton  works,  investigating  now  one  historic  ques- 
tion, now  another,  endeavouring  out  of  old,  yellow-faced  annals 
to  seize  the  precious  passages  which  suggest  the  life  of  a  tuue, 
and  recording  the  result  of  all  in  piles  of  manuscrii)t. 
i       How  often  have  I  and  Gower— that  youngest  of  the  three, 
'  en  the  other  side,  with  the  moustache— urged  him  to  write  a 
book.     But  he  waits,  and,  with  his  fastidiousness,  will  always 
wait,  I  am  afraid,  till  he  has  practically  solved  this  problem  ;— 
given  a  subject  in  remote  history,  for  which  not  ten  of  your 
friends  care  a  straw ;  required  such  a  treatment  of  it  as  shall  at 
once  be  relished  by  the  many  and  accredited  as  standard  by  the 


c.  I.]  Lionel  Gower.  5 

{^\N.  So,  thinking  it  useless  to  write  what  scarcely  anyone  will 
read,  and  despairing  of  being  ever  erudite  and  popular  at  the 
same  time,  he  is  content  to  enquire  and  to  accumulate  in  most 
happy  obscurity.  Doubtless  the  world  groans  under  its  many 
books,  yet  it  misses  some  good  ones  that  would  assuredly  be 
written  if  able  men  with  the  ambition  were  oftener  possessed  of 
the  time  required,  or  if  able  men  with  the  time  were  oftener 
possessed  of  the  ambition. 

You  ask  me,  'Who  is  this  Gower?' 

An  artist.  Atherton  met  with  him  at  Rome,  where  he  was 
tracing  classic  sites,  and  Gower  worshipping  the  old  masters. 
Their  pathway  chanced  on  one  or  two  occasions  to  coincide, 
and  by  little  and  little  they  grew  fast  friends.  They  travelled 
through  Germany  together  on  their  way  home,  and  found  their 
friendship  robust  enough  to  survive  the  landing  on  our  British 
shore.  Unquestionably  the  pictured  Vatican,  sunny  Forum, 
brown  Campagna,  garlanded  baths  of  Caracalla,  with  quaint, 
ingenious  Nuremberg,  and  haunted  Hartz,  made  common 
memories  for  both.  But  this  was  not  all.  Atherton  had  found 
the  young  painter  in  a  sentimental  fever.  He  raved  about 
Shelley;  he  was  full  of  adoration  for  the  flimsiest  abstractions 
— enamoured  of  impersonations  the  most  impalpable  ;  he  dis- 
coursed in  high  strain  on  the  dedication  of  life  as  a  Hymn  to 
Intellectual  Beauty.  The  question  of  questions  with  him  con- 
cerned not  Truth  or  Fable,  but  the  Beautiful  or  the  Not- 
Beautiful.  Whatever  charmed  his  taste  was  from  Ormuzd,  the 
Good  :  whatever  revolted  it,  from  Ahriman,  the  Evil ;  and  so 
the  universe  was  summarily  parted.  He  fancied  he  was  making 
art  religious,  while,  in  fact,  he  made  religion  a  mere  branch  of 
art, — and  that  branch,  of  all  others,  the  most  open  to  individual 
caprice. 

From  these  wanderings  Atherton  reclaimed  him,  wisely,  and 
therefore  almost  insensibly.     Gower  never  forgot  the  service. 


6  Introduction.  [b.  i. 

In  his  admiration  for  Atherton,  when  fully  conscious  of  it,  he 
little  suspected  that  he,  too,  had  conferred  a  benefit  in  his  turn. 
Atherton  had  looked  too  much  within,  as  Gower  too  exclusively 
without.  A  certain  imaginative,  even  poetical  element,  dormant 
in  the  mind  of  the  former,  was  resuscitated  by  this  friendship. 

Gower  rejoices  in  the  distressingly  novehsh  Christian  name 
of  Lionel.  Why  will  parents  give  names  to  their  offspring 
which  are  sure  to  entail  ridicule  during  the  most  susceptible 
period  of  existence  ?  No  sooner  did  youiig  Lionel  enter  school, 
with  that  delicate  red-and-white  complexion,  and  long  curling 
hair,  than  he  was  nicknamed  Nelly.  But  he  fought  his  way 
stoutly  till  he  won  a  title  from  the  first  part  of  his  name  rather 
than  the  last,  and  in  school  traditions  figures  still  as  Lion, 
royally  grim  and  noble.  That  open  countenance  and  high 
forehead,  with  the  deep  piercing  eyes  set  rather  far  apart,  con- 
stitute not  merely  a  promising  physiognomy  for  the  artist,  they 
bear  faithful  witness  to  mental  power  and  frankness  of  character, 
to  practical  sagacity  and  force.  In  one  respect  only  can  he  be 
charged  with  asserting  in  his  person  his  professional  preten- 
sions,— his  hair  is  parted  in  the  middle,  falling  in  natural  waves 
on  either  side ;  long  enough,  as  your  eye  tells  you,  for  grace  ; 
too  short  for  affectation. 

One  quality  in  Gower  I  have  always  especially  liked,— his 
universality.  Not  that  he  sets  up  for  Encyclopaedism ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  laments  more  than  he  need  the  scantiness  of  his 
knowledge  and  his  want  of  time  for  its  enlargement.  What  I 
mean  is  that  with  every  kind  of  enquiry,  every  province  of  cul- 
ture, he  seems  to  have  intuitively  the  readiest  sympathy. 
Though  his  notion  of  the  particular  art  or  science  may  be  only 
cursory  and  general,  his  imagination  puts  him  in  some  way  in 
the  place  of  its  exclusive  devotees,  and  he  enters  into  their 
feelings  till  their  utmost  worship  appears  scarcely  excessive  to 
him.     I  have  heard  such  votaries  pour  out  unreservedly  into 


c.  I.]  Frank  Willoughby.  7 

/lis  ear,  as  into  that  of  a  brother  enthusiast,  all  those  dehghtful 
details  of  adventure,  of  hope  and  fear,  of  research  and  of 
conjecture,  which  make  the  very  Hfe  of  the  most  minute  or  the 
most  arid  pursuits,  and  which  books  impart  to  us  so  rarely. 
And  all  this  (making  the  world  to  him  such  a  wide  one)  with- 
out taking  aught  from  his  allegiance  to  painting.  Already  have 
his  genius  and  his  diligence  achieved  success — you  will  find 
his  pictures  realizing  high  prices — and  that  snug  little  box  of 
his,  only  ten  minutes'  walk  from  Ashfield,  is  furnished  much 
too  handsomely  to  accord  with  the  popular  idea  of  what  must 
be  the  residence  of  a  young  artist,  five-and-twenty,  but  newly 
started  in  his  profession,  and  with  all  his  'expectations'  gathered 
up  within  his  brush. 

'  The  third  member  of  the  trio,  Mr.  Author,  has  not  certainly 
the  personal  advantages  of  our  friend  Gower.  I  suppose  you 
expect  me  to  say  '  our'  now,  if  only  as  a  compliment.  Yet  stay 
— a  very  expressive  face,  with  a  genial  hearty  look  about  it ; — - 
there !  now  he  is  smiling,  that  rather  clumsy  mouth  is  quite 
pleasant;  but  he  lets  too  much  beard  grow  for  my  taste.' 

Bearded  Willoughby,  O  Reader,  is  a  literary  man,  a  confirmed 
bachelor,  they  say;  and  encrusted  with  some  roughnesses  and 
oddities  which  conceal  from  the  eyes  of  strangers  his  real 
warmth  of  heart  and  delicacy  of  feeling.  His  parents  destined 
him  for  the  Church  from  those  tender  years  wherein  the  only 
vocation  manifest  is  that  which  summons  boyhood  to  peg-top 
and  jam  tart.  When  the  time  drew  near  in  which  he  should 
have  taken  orders,  Willoughby  went  up  to  London,  brimful  of 
eager  philanthropy,  of  religious  doubts,  and  of  literary  ambition, 
to  become  one  of  the  High-priests  of  Letters.  His  first  work 
was  a  novel  to  illustrate  the  mission  of  the  literary  Priesthood, 
a  topsy-turvy  affair,  but  dashingly  clever — by  the  way,  you 
can  scarcely  offend  him  more  than  to  mention  it  now  ; — with 
this  book   he  succeeded  in  producing  a  sensation,  and   the 


8  IntrodiiJion.  [b.  i. 

barrier  thus  passed,  his  pen  has  found  full  employment  ever 
since.  He  has  now  abandoned  the  extravagances  of  hero- 
worship,  and  I  have  even  heard  him  intimate  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  '  able  editors'  were,  after  all,  the  great,  divinely-accre- 
dited hierophants  of  the  species. 

At  present  Willoughby  is  occupied,  as  time  allows,  with  a 
philosophical  romance,  in  which  are  to  be  embodied  his  views 
of  society  as  it  is  and  as  it  should  be.  This  desperate  enter- 
prise is  quite  a  secret ;  even  Atherton  and  Gower  know  nothing 
of  it ;  so  you  will  not  mention  it,  if  you  please,  to  more  than 
half-a-dozen  of  your  most  intimate  friends. 

Willoughby  was  first  introduced  to  Atherton  as  the  author  of 
some  articles  in  favour  of  certain  social  reforms  in  which  the 
latter  had  deeply  interested  himself  So  rem-arkable  were  these 
papers  for  breadth,  discrimination,  and  vivacity  of  style,  that 
the  admiring  Atherton  could  not  rest  till  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  writer.  The  new  combatant  awakened 
general  attention,  and  Frank  Willoughby  was  on  the  point  of 
becoming  a  lion.  But  his  conversational  powers  were  incon- 
siderable. His  best  thoughts  ran  with  his  ink  from  the  point 
of  the  pen.  So  Atherton,  with  little  difficulty,  carried  him  off 
from  the  lion-hunters. 

The  three  friends  w-ere  agreed  that  the  crowning  locality  of 
all  for  any  mortal  was  a  residence  a  few  miles  from  town,  with 
congenial  neighbours  close  at  hand, — a  house  or  two  where 
one  might  drop  in  for  an  evening  at  any  time.  As  was  their 
theory  so  was  their  practice,  and  the  two  younger  men  are 
often  to  be  found  in  the  evening  at  Atherton's,  sometimes  in 
the  library  with  him,  sometimes  in  the  drawing-room,  with  the 
additional  enjoyment  afforded  by  the  society  of  his  fair  young 
wife  and  her  sister. 

But  while  I  have  been  Boswellizing  to  you  about  the  past 
history  of  these  friends  of  mine,  you  cannot  have  heard  a  word 
ihey  have  been  saying.     Now  I  will  be  quiet, — let  us  listen. 


CHAPTER    IT. 

Philosophy  itself 
Smacks  of  the  age  it  lives  in,  nor  is  true 
Sav'  by  the  apposition  of  the  present. 
And  truths  of  olden  time,  though  truths  they  be, 
And  living  through  all  time  eternal  truths, 
Yet  want  theseas'ning  and  applying  hand 
Which  Nature  sends  successive.     Else  the  need 
Of  wisdom  should  wear  out  and  wisdom  cease, 
Since  needless  wisdom  were  not  to  be  wise. 

Edwin  thf.  Fair. 

A  THERTON.  A  pleasant  little  knot  to  set  us,  Gower,— 
to  determine  the  conditions  of  your  art. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  after  dinner,  too,  of  all  times. 

GowER.  Why  not  ?  If  the  picture-critics  would  only  write 
their  verdicts  after  dinner,  many  a  poor  victim  would  find  his 
dinner  prospects  brighter.  This  is  the  genial  hour ;  the  very 
time  to  discuss  aesthetics,  where  geniality  is  everything. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Do  you  remember  that  passage  in  one  of  our 
old  plays  (I  think  it  was  in  Lamb  I  saw  it),  where  the  crazed 
father  asks  all  sorts  of  impossible  things  from  the  painter.  He 
wants  him  to  make  the  tree  shriek  on  which  his  murdered  son 
hangs  ghastly  in  the  moonlight. 

GowER.  Salvator  has  plenty  of  them,  splintered  with  shriek- 
ing. 

WiLLOUGHr.Y.  But  this  man's  frenzy  demands  more  yet : — 
make  me  cry,  make  me  mad,  make  me  well  again,  and  in  the 
end  leave  me  in  a  trance,— -and  so  forth. 

Atherton.  Fortunate  painter — a  picture  gallery  ordered  in 
a  breath  I 

WiLLOUGHBY.  By  no  means.  Now  does  this  request,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  so  enormously  violate  the  conditions 


lo  Introduction.  [b.  i. 

of  the  art  ?  Seriously,  I  should  state  the  matter  thus  : — The 
artist  is  limited  to  a  moment  only,  and  yet  is  the  greater  artist 
in  proportion  as  he  can  not  only  adequately  occupy,  but  even 
transcend  that  moment. 

GowER.  I  agree  with  you.  Painting  reaches  its  highest 
aim  when  it  carries  us  beyond  painting ;  when  it  is  not  merely 
itself  a  creation,  but  makes  the  spectator  creative,  and  prompts 
him  with  the  antecedents  and  the  consequents  of  the  repre- 
sented action. 

Atherton.  But  all  are  not  equal  to  the  reception  of  such 
suggestions. 

GowER.  And  so,  with  unsusceptible  minds,  we  must  be 
satisfied  if  they  praise  us  for  our  imitation  merely. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  cven  they  will  derive  more  pleasure, 
though  unable  to  account  for  it,  from  works  of  this  higher 
order.  Those,  assuredly,  are  the  masterpieces  of  art,  in  any 
branch,  which  are,  as  it  were,  triumphal  arches  that  lead  us  out 
into  the  domain  of  some  sister  art.  When  poetry  pourtrays 
with  the  painter, — 

GowER.  My  favourite,  Spenser,  to  wit. — 

WiLLOUGHBY.  When  painting  sings  its  story  with  the  min- 
strel, and  when  music  paints  and  sings  with  both,  they  are  at 
their  height.  Take  music,  for  instance.  What  scenes  does 
some  fine  overture  suggest,  even  when  you  know  nothing  of 
its  design,  as  you  close  your  eyes  and  yield  to  its  influence. 
The  events,  or  the  reading  of  the  previous  day,  the  incidents 
of  history  or  romance,  are  wrought  up  with  glorious  trans- 
figurations, and  you  are  in  the  land  of  dreams  at  once.  Some 
of  them  rise  before  me  at  this  moment,  vivid  as  ever : — now  I 
see  the  fair  damosels  of  the  olden  time  on  their  palfreys,  pranc- 
ing on  the  sward  beside  a  castle  gate,  while  silver  trumpets 
blow  ;  then,  as  the  music  changes,  I  hear  cries  far  off  on  forlorn 
and  haunted  moors ;  now  it  is  the  sea,  and  there  sets  the  sun, 


c.  2.]  The  Poivers  of  Art.  1 1 


red,  through  the  ribs  of  a  wrecked  hull,  that  cross  it  like 
skeleton  giant  bars.  There  is  one  passage  in  the  overture  to 
Fra  Diavolo,  during  which  I  always  emerge,  through  ocean 
caves,  in  some  silken  palace  of  the  east,  where  the  music  rises 
and  rains  in  the  fountains,  and  ethereally  palpitates  in  their 
wavering  rainbows.  But  dream-scenery  of  this  sort  is  familiar 
to  most  persons  at  such  times. 

GowER.  I  have  often  revelled  in  it. 

WiLLouGHBY.  And  what  is  true  for  so  many  with  regard  to 
music,  may  sometimes  be  realized  on  seeing  pictures. 

Atherton.  Only,  I  think,  in  a  way  still  more  accidental 
and  arbitrary.  An  instance,  hov/ever,  of  the  thing  you  men- 
tion did  happen  to  me  last  week.  I  had  been  reading  a  German 
writer  on  mysticism,  searching,  after  many  disappointments, 
for  a  satisfactory  definition  of  it.  Page  after  page  of  meta- 
physical verbiage  did  I  wade  through  in  vain.  At  last,  what 
swarms  of  labouring  words  had  left  as  obscure  as  ever,  a  picture 
seemed  to  disclose  to  me  in  a  moment.  I  saw  that  evening, 
at  a  friend's  house,  a  painting  which  revealed  to  me,  as  I 
imagined,  the  very  spirit  of  mysticism  in  a  figure ;  it  was  a 
visible  emblem  or  hieroglyph  of  that  mysterious  religious 
affection. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Your  own  subjectivity  forged  both  lock  and 
key  together,  I  suspect. 

GowER.  What  in  the  world  did  the  piece  represent  ? 

Atherton.  I  will  describe  it  as  well  as  I  can.  It  was  the 
interior  of  a  Spanish  cathedral.  The  most  prominent  object 
in  the  foreground  below  was  the  mighty  foot  of  a  staircase,  with 
a  balustrade  of  exceeding  richness,  which,  in  its  ascent,  crosses 
and  recrosses  the  picture  till  its  highest  flight  is  lost  in  darkness, 
— for  on  that  side  the  cathedral  is  built  against  a  hill.  A  half- 
light  slanted  down — a  sunbeam  through  the  vast  misty  space 
— from  a  window  without  the  range  of  the  picture.     At  various 


12  Introduction.  [b.  i. 

stages  of  the  mounting  stairway  figures  on  pillars,  bearing 
escutcheons,  saints  and  kings  in  fretted  niches,  and  painted 
shapes  of  gules  and  azure  from  the  lofty  window  in  the  east, 
looked  down  on  those  who  were  ascending,  some  in  brightness, 
some  in  shadow.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  were  two  couchant 
griffins  of  stone,  with  expanded  spiny  wings,  arched  necks 
fluted  with  horny  armour,  and  open  threatening  jaws. 

GowER.  Now  for  the  interpretation  of  your  parable  in  stone. 

Atherton.  It  represented  to  me  the  mystic's  progress — my 
mind  was  full  of  that — his  initiation,  his  ascent,  his  consum- 
mation in  self  loss.  First  of  all  the  aspirant,  whether  he  seeks 
superhuman  knowledge  or  superhuman  love,  is  confronted  at 
the  outset  by  terrible  shapes — the  Dwellers  of  the  Threshold, 
whether  the  cruelty  of  asceticism,  the  temptations  of  the  adver- 
sary, or  the  phantoms  of  his  own  feverish  brain.  This  fiery 
baptism  manfully  endured,  he  begins  to  mount  through  alternate 
glooms  and  illuminations;  now  catching  a  light  from  some 
source  beyond  the  grosser  organs  of  ordinary  men,  again  in 
darkness  and  barren  drought  of  soul.  The  saintly  memories  of 
adepts  and  of  heroes  in  these  mystic  labours  are  the  faithful 
witnesses  that  cheer  him  at  each  stage,  whose  far  glories  beacon 
him  from  their  place  of  high  degree  as  he  rises  step  by  step. 
Are  not  those  first  trials  fairly  symbolized  by  my  griffins,  those 
vicissitudes  of  the  soul  by  such  light  and  shadow,  and  those 
exalted  spectators  by  the  statues  of  my  stairway  and  the  shining 
ones  of  my  oriel  window  ?  Then  for  the  climax.  The  aim  of 
the  mystic,  if  of  the  most  abstract  contemplative  type,  is  to  lose 
himself  in  the  Divine  Dark' — to  escape  from  everything  definite, 
everything  palpable,  everything  human,  into  the  Infinite  Ful- 

'  The  writer,  who  goes  by  tlie  name  sounds  and  heavenly  discoursings,  and 

of  Dionysius  Areopagita,  teaches  that  have  passed  into  that  Darkness  where 

the  highest  spiritual  truth  is  revealed  He  really  is  (as  saith  the  Scripture) 

only  to  those  '  who  have  transcended  who  is  above  all  things.' — De  Mystic^ 

every  ascent  of  every  holy  height,  and  Theologid,  cap.  i.  §  3. 
have  left  behind  all  divine  lights  and 


2.]  Mysticism  has  its  Lessuiis.  i  3 


ness ;  which  is,  at  the  same  time,  the  '  intense  inane.'  The 
profoundest  obscurity  is  his  highest  glory ;  he  cuhninates  in 
darkness  ;  for  is  not  the  deathUke  midnight  sknnber  of  the 
sense,  he  will  ask  us,  the  wakeful  noonday  of  the  spirit  ?  So, 
as  I  looked  on  the  picture,  I  seemed  to  lose  sight  of  him  where 
the  summit  of  the  stair  was  lost  among  the  shadows  crouched 
umler  the  roof  of  that  strange  structure. 

GowER.  I  perceive  the  analogy.  I  owe  you  thanks  for 
enabling  me  to  attach  at  least  some  definite  idea  to  the  word 
mysticism.  I  confess  I  have  generally  used  the  term  mystical 
to  designate  anything  fantastically  unintelligible,  without  giving 
to  it  any  distinct  significance. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  havc  always  been  partial  to  tlie  mystics,  I 
must  say.  They  appear  to  me  to  have  been  the  conservators 
of  the  poetry  and  heart  of  religion,  especially  in  opposition  to 
the  dry  prose  and  formalism  of  the  schoolmen. 

Atherton.  So  they  really  were  in  great  measure.  They  did 
good  service,  many  of  them,  in  their  day — -their  very  errors  often 
such  as  were  possible  only  to  great  souls.  Still  their  notions 
concerning  special  revelation  and  immediate  intuition  of  God 
were  grievous  mistakes. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  without  the  ardour  imparted  by  such  doc- 
trines, they  might  have  lacked  the  strength  requisite  to  withstand 
misconceptions  far  more  mischievous. 

Atherton.  Very  likely.  We  should  have  more  mercy  on 
the  one-sidedness  of  men.  if  we  reflected  oftener  that  the  evil 
we  condemn  mav  l^c  in  fact  keeping  out  some  much  greater  evil 
on  the  other  side. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  think  one  may  learn  a  great  deal  from  such 
erratic  or  morbid  kinds  of  religion.  Almost  all  we  are  in  a  posi- 
tion to  say,  concerning  spiritual  influence,  consists  of  negatives 
— and  what  that  influence  is  not  we  can  best  gather  from  these 
abnormal  phases  of  the  mind.     Certainly  an  impartial  estimate 


14  Introduction.  [b.  i. 

of  the  good  and  of  the  evil  wrought  by  eminent  mystics,  would 
prove  a  very  instructive  occupation ;  it  would  be  a  trying  of  the 
spirits  by  their  fruits. 

GowER.  And  all  the  more  useful  as  the  mistakes  of  mysti- 
cism, whatever  they  may  be,  are  mistakes  concerning  questions 
which  we  all  feel  it  so  important  to  have  rightly  answered  ; 
committed,  too,  by  men  of  like  passions  with  ourselves,  so  that 
what  was  danger  to  them  may  be  danger  also  to  some  of  us,  in 
an  altered  form. 

Atherton.  Unquestionably.  Rationalism  overrates  reason, 
formalism  action,  and  mysticism  feeling — hence  the  common 
attributes  of  the  last,  heat  and  obscurity.  But  a  tendency  to 
excess  in  each  of  these  three  directions  must  exist  in  every  age 
among  the  cognate  varieties  of  mind.  You  remember  how 
Pindar  frequently  introduces  into  an  ode  two  opposite  mythical 
personages,  such  as  a  Pelops  or  a  Tantalus,  an  Ixion  or  a 
Perseus,  one  of  whom  shall  resemble  the  great  man  addressed 
by  the  poet  in  his  worse,  the  other  in  his  better  characteristics  ; 
that  thus  he  may  be  at  once  encouraged  and  deterred.  Deeper 
lessons  than  were  drawn  for  Hiero  from  the  characters  of  the 
heroic  age  may  be  learnt  by  us  from  the  religious  struggles  of 
the  past.  It  would  be  impossible  to  study  the  position  of  the 
old  mystics  without  being  warned  and  stimulated  by  a  weakness 
and  a  strength  to  which  our  nature  corresponds ; — unless,  in. 
deed,  the  enquiry  were  conducted  unsympathizingly ;  with 
cold  hearts,  as  far  from  the  faith  of  the  mystics  as  from  their 
folUes. 

GowER.  If  we  are  likely  to  learn  in  this  way  from  such  an 
investigation,  suppose  we  agree  to  set  about  it,  and  at  once. 

Atherton.  With  all  my  heart.  I  have  gone  a  little  way  in 
this  direcdon  alone  ;  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  company 
upon  the  road. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  An  arduous  task,  when  you  come  to  look  it 


c.  2.  The  Testimony  of  History.  1$ 

in  the  face, — to  determine  that  narrow  line  between  the  genuine 
ardour  of  the  Christian  and  the  overwrought  fervours  of  the 
mystical  devotee, — to  enter  into  the  philosophy  of  such  a  ques- 
tion ;  and  that  with  a  terminology  so  misleading  and  so  defective 
as  the  l)est  at  our  service.  It  will  be  like  shaping  the  second 
hand  of  a  watch  with  a  pair  of  shears,  I  promise  you.  We  shall 
find  continually  tracts  of  ground  belonging  to  one  of  the  rival 
territories  of  True  and  False  inlaid  upon  the  regions  of  the 
other,  like  those  patches  from  a  distant  shire  that  lie  in  the 
middle  of  some  of  our  counties.  Many  of  the  words  we  must 
employ  to  designate  a  certain  cast  of  mind  or  opinion  are  taken 
from  some  accidental  feature  or  transitory  circumstance, — ex- 
press no  real  characteristic  of  the  idea  in  question.  They 
indicate  our  ignorance,  like  the  castles  with  large  flags,  bla- 
zoned with  the  arms  of  sovereigns,  which  the  old  monkish 
geographers  set  down  in  their  maps  of  Europe  to  stand  in- 
stead of  the  rivers,  towns,  and  mountains  of  an  unknown 
interior. 

Atherton.  True  enough  ;  but  we  must  do  the  best  we  can. 
We  should  never  enter  on  any  investigation  a  little  beneath  the 
surface  of  things  if  we  consider  all  the  difficulties  so  gravely. 
Besides,  we  are  not  going  to  be  so  ponderously  philosophical 
about  the  matter.  The  facts  themselves  will  be  our  best 
teachers,  as  they  arise,  and  as  we  arrange  them  when  they 
accumulate. 

History  fairly  questioned  is  no  Sphinx.  She  tells  us  what 
kind  of  teaching  has  been  fruitful  in  blessing  to  humanity,  and 
why  ;  and  what  has  been  a  mere  boastful  promise  or  power- 
less formula.  She  is  the  true  test  of  every  system,  and  the  safe- 
guard of  her  disciples  from  theoretical  or  practical  extravagance. 
\\'ere  her  large  lessons  learned,  from  how  many  foolish  hopes 
and  fears  would  they  save  men  !  We  should  not  then  see  a 
fanatical  confidence  placed  in  pet  theories  for  the  summary 


l6  Introduction.  [»■  t. 

expulsion  of  all  superstition,  wrongfulness,  and  ill-will, — theo- 
ries whose  prototypes  failed  ages  back  :  neither  would  good 
Christian  folk  be  so  frightened  as  some  of  them  are  at  the 
seemingly  novel  exhibitions  of  unbelief  in  our  time. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  A  great  gain — to  be  above  both  panic  and 
presumption.  I  have  never  heartily  given  myself  to  a  historic 
study  without  realizing  some  such  twofold  advantage.  Jt  ani- 
mated and  it  humbled  me.  How  minute  my  power ;  but  how 
inomentous  to  me  its  conscientious  exercise  !  I  will  hunt  this 
mystical  game  with  you,  or  any  other,  right  wilHngly ;  all  the 
more  so,  if  we  can  keep  true  to  a  historic  rather  than  theoretical 
treatment  of  the  subject. 

GowER.  As  to  practical  details,  then  : — I  propose  that  we 
have  no  rules. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Certainly  not  ;  away  with  formalities ;  let  us 
be  Thelemites,  and  do  as  we  like.  We  can  take  up  this  topic 
as  a  bye-work,  to  furnish  us  with  some  consecutive  pursuit  in 
those  intervals  of  time  we  are  so  apt  to  waste.  We  can  meet — 
never  mind  at  what  intervals,  from  a  week  to  three  months — ■ 
and  throw  into  the  common  stock  of  conversation  our  several 
reading  on  the  questions  in  hand. 

Atherton.  Or  one  of  us  may  take  up  some  individual  or 
period ;  write  down  his  thoughts  :  and  we  will  assemble  then  to 
hear  and  talk  the  matter  over, 

GowER.  Very  good.  And  if  Mrs.  Atherton  and  Miss  Merivale 
will  sometimes  deign  to  honour  our  evenings  with  their  society, 
our  happiness  will  be  complete. 

This  mention  of  the  ladies  reminds  cur  friends  of  the  time, 
and  they  are  breaking  up  to  join  them. 

The  essays  and  dialogues  which  follow  have  their  origin  in 
the  conversation  to  which  we  have  just  listened. 


CHAPTER  III. 

If  we  entertain  the  inward  man  in  the  purgative  and  illuminative  way,  that  is, 
in  actions  of  repentance,  virtue,  and  precise  duty,  that  is  the  surest  way  of 
uniting  us  to  God,  whilst  it  is  done  by  faith  and  obedience  ;  and  that  also  is 
love  ;  and  in  these  peace  and  safety  dwell.  And  after  we  have  done  our  work, 
it  is  not  discretion  in  a  servant  to  hasten  to  his  meal,  and  snatch  at  tlie  refresh- 
ment of  visions,  unions,  and  abstractions  ;  but  first  we  must  gird  ourselves,  and 
wait  upon  the  ma5:er,  and  not  sit  down  ourselves,  till  we  all  be  called  at  the 
great  supper  of  the  Lamb. — Jkremy  Taylor. 

Co,  we  are  to  be  etymological  to-night,'  exclaimed  Gower, 
as  he  stepped  forward  to  join  Willoughby  in  his  inspection 
of  a  great  folio  which  Atherton  had  laid  open  on  a  reading  desk, 
ready  to  entertain  his  friends. 

'  What  says  Suidas  about  our  word  mysticism?* 

"Willoughby.  I  see  the  old  lexicographer  derives  the  original 
word  from  the  root  mii,  to  close  :  the  secret  rites  and  lessons 
of  the  Greek  mysteries  were  things  about  which  the  mouth  was 
to  be  closed.^  . 

Gow^ER.  We  have  the  very  same  syllable  in  our  language  for 
the  same  thing — only  improved  in  expressiveness  by  the 
addition  of  another  letter, — we  say,  '  to  be  vnim.' 

Atherton.  Well,  this  settles  one  whole  class  of  significations 
at  once.  The  term  m)stical  may  be  applied  in  this  sense  to 
any  secret  language  or  ritual  which  is  understood  only  by  the 
initiated.  In  this  way  the  philosophers  borrowed  the  word 
figuratively  from  the  priests,  and  applied  it  to  their  inner  esoteric 

'  On   the  word  jivrjo-i?  Suidas  says,  Suicer  also  cites  Hesychius  :    Eiym. 

EipTjTat  hi  TTapa  zb  Tot  (iVJ-T^oia  (cat  airdp-  Mag. — Mu(7n)9,  wapa  to  ^uuj,  to  Ka.fi.ii.vu. 

pijTa  TeAciuSat'  ^  Sta.  to  iivovra?  Tas  aiuSq-  fi.vovTe';    7ap    Ta;    ai<r0>JcTfis     Kol    cfui     Tuif 

ffti?     Kol    (TreKCiva    o-w/iaTtic^S     <JavTa(na9  uapKiKujy    4>povTiSiuv    yivonevoi,    ovTui     Tot 

^d'OficVovj,  Tas  Btiai;  €l(76txe<7'8at  c\Aa/ii//eis.  BtCa^  afaXdfxi/'eit  e£e'x°*^°- 

VOL.  I.  C 


Introduction.  [b.  i. 


doctrines.  The  disciple  admitted  to  these  was  a  philosophical 
'  myst,'  or  mystic. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  next  Step  is  Very  obvious.  The  family  of 
words  relating  to  mystery,  initiation,  &c.,  are  adopted  into  the 
ecclesiastical  phraseology  of  the  early  Christian  world, — not  in 
the  modified  use  of  them  occasionally  observable  in  St.  Paul, 
but  with  their  old  Pagan  significance. 

GowER.  So  that  the  exclusive  and  aristocratic  spirit  of  Greek 
culture  re-appears  in  Christianity? 

Atherton.  Just  so.  Thus  you  see  the  church  doors  shutting 
out  the  catechumens  from  beholding  'the  mystery'  (as  they 
came  to  call  the  Eucharist,  par  exccUmce)  quite  as  rigidly  as 
the  brazen  gates  of  Eleusis  excluded  the  profane  many.  You 
hear  Theodoret  and  Ambrose  speaking  freely  before  the  unini- 
tiated on  moral  subjects,  but  concerning  the  rites  they  deemed 
of  mysterious,  almost  magical  efificacy,  they  will  deliver  only 
obscure  utterances  to  such  auditors  ;  their  language  is  purposely 
dark  and  figurative, — suggestive  to  the  initiated,  unintelligible 
to  the  neophyte.  How  often  on  approaching  the  subject  of  the 
sacrament,  does  Chrysostom  stop  short  in  his  sermon,  and 
break  off  abruptly  with  the  formula, — '  the  initiated  will  under- 
stand what  I  mean.'  So  Christianity,  corrupted  by  Gentile 
philosophy,  has  in  like  manner  its  privileged  and  its  inferior 
order  of  votaries, — becomes  a  respecter  of  persons,  with  arbi- 
trary distinction  makes  two  kinds  of  religion  out  of  one,  and 
begins  to  nourish  with  fatal  treachery  its  doctrine  of  reserve." 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  Suidas  has  here,  I  perceive,  a  second 
meaning  in  store  for  us.  This  latter,  I  suspect,  is  most  to  our 
purpose, — it  is  simply  an  extension  of  the  former.  He  refers 
the  word  to  the  practice  of  closing  as  completely  as  possible 

2  See  Bingham,  Antiq.  of  the  Chris-  tian  doctrine  of  the  phraseology  in  use 

tian     Church,    vol.    ix.    pp.     96-105.  concerning  the  heathen  mysteries  ;— 

Clement   of  Alexandria    abounds    in  e.^.  Proirept.  cap.  xii.  J  120. 
examples  of  the  application  to  Chris- 


c.  3.]  History  of  the  Word  Mysticism.  1 9 

every  avenue  of  perception  by  the  senses,  for  the  purpose  of 
withdrawing  the  mind  from  everything  external  into  itself,  so 
as  to  fit  it  (raised  above  every  sensuous  representation)  for 
receiving  divine  iUumination  immediately  from  above. 

GowER.  Platonic  abstraction,  in  fact. 

Atherton.  So  it  seems.  The  Neo-Platonist  was  accustomed 
to  call  every  other  branch  of  science  the  '  lesser  mysteries  :' 
this  inward  contemplation,  the  climax  of  Platonism,  is  the 
great  mystery,  the  inmost,  highest  initiation.  Withdraw  into 
thyself,  he  will  say,  and  the  adytum  of  thine  own  soul  will 
reveal  to  thee  profounder  secrets  than  the  cave  of  Mithras.  So 
that  his  mysticus  is  emphatically  the  enclosed,  self-withdrawn, 
introverted  man.''  This  is  an  initiation  which  does  not  merely, 
like  that  of  Isis  or  of  Ceres,  close  the  lips  in  silence,  but  the 
eye,  the  ear,  every  faculty  of  perception,  in  inward  contempla- 
tion or  in  the  ecstatic  abstraction  of  the  trance. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  then  it  is  an  effort  man  is  to  make — in 
harmony  with  the  matter-hating  principles  of  this  school — to 
strip  off  the  material  and  sensuous  integuments  of  his  being, 
and  to  reduce  himself  to  a  purely  spiritual  element.  And  in 
thus  ignoring  the  follies  and  the  phantasms  of  Appearance — as 
they  call  the  actual  world — the  worshipper  of  pure  Being  be- 
lieved himself  to  enjoy  at  least  a  transitory  oneness  with  the 
object  of  his  adoration? 

Atherton.  So  Plotinus  would  say,  if  not  Plato.  And  now 
we  come  to  the  transmission  of  the  idea  and  the  expression 
to   the  Church.     A  writer,  going   by  the  name  of  Dionysius 

3  Both   Plotinus  and  Proclus  speak  §  i,   p.  6.     Dr.   Tholuck  is   the  only 

of  the  highest  revelation    concerning  German  writer  I  have  seen  who  throws 

divine  things  as  vouchsafed  to  the  soul  light  on  the  word  in   question  by  ac- 

which  withdraws  into  itself,  and,  dead  curately   investigating    its    etymology 

to  all   that   is   external,    '  gazes   with  and  successive  meanings  ;  and  I  readily 

closed  eyes'  (m'o-ao-ai') .     See  Tholuck's  acknowledge  my  debt  to  his  sugges- 

Dliithcnsammlung      aus     der     Mor-  tions  on  this  point. 
genlandischeii    Mystik ;    Einleiiuiig, 

C  2 


20 


Introduction.  [b.  i. 


the  Areopagite,  ferries  this  shade  over  into  the  darkness  visible 
of  the  ecclesiastical  world  in  the  fifth  century.  The  system  of 
mystical  theology  introduced  by  him  was  eminently  adapted  to 
the  monastic  and  hierarchical  tendencies  of  the  time.  His 
'  Mystic'  is  not  merely  a  sacred  personage,  acquainted  with  the 
doctrines  and  participator  in  the  rites  called  mysteries,  but  one 
also  who  (exactly  after  the  Neo-Platonist  pattern)  by  mortifying 
the  body,  closing  the  senses  to  everything  external,  and  ignoring 
every  '  intellectual  apprehension,'*  attains  in  passivity  a  divine 
union,  and  in  ignorance  a  wisdom  transcending  all  knowledge. 

GowER.  Prepared  to  say,  I  suppose,  with  one  of  old  George 
Chapman's  characters — 

I'll  build  all  inward— not  a  light  shall  ope 
The  common  out-way. — 
I'll  therefore  live  in  dark  ;  and  all  my  light, 
Like  ancient  temples,  let  in  at  my  top. 

WiLLOUGHBV.  Not  much  light  either.  The  mystic,  as  such, 
was  not  to  know  anything  about  the  Infinite,  he  was  '  to  gaze 
with  closed  eyes,'  passively  to  receive  impressions,  lost  in  the 
silent,  boundless  '  Dark'  of  the  Divine  Subsistence. 

■•  Dionysius  thus  describes  the  mys-  operations  of  the  intellect ;  all  objects 
tical  adept  who  has  reached  the  sum-  of  sense  and  all  objects  of  thought,  all 
mit  of  union  :— '  Then  is  he  delivered  things  non-existent  and  existent  (al(7er,Ta 
from  all  seeing  and  being  seen,  and  =oi(c  wm,  vor)Ta=oi'Ta),  and  ignorantly 
passes  into  the  truly  mystical  darkness  to  strive  upwards  towards  Union  as 
of  io-norance,  where  he  excludes  all  close  as  possible  with  Him  who  is  above 
intetlectual  apprehensions  (ras  yi/wo-n-  all  essence  and  knowledge  :— inasmuch 
Ktts  di-TiA^i^ei;),  and  abides  in  the  as  by  a  pure,  free,  and  absolute  separa- 
utterly  Impalpable  and  Invisible  ;  tion  (eKtrracret)  of  himself  from  all 
bein°-  wholly  His  who  is  above  all,  things,  he  will  be  exalted  (stripped  and 
with" no  other  dependence,  either  on  freed  from  everything)  to  the  super- 
himself  or  any  other  ;  and  is  made  essential  radiance  of  the  divme  dark- 
one    as  to  his  nobler  part,  with  the  ness.'— p.  708. 

utterly  Unknown,  by  the  cessation  of  About   the  words  rendered    '  intel- 

all  knowing  ;  and  at  the  same  time,  in  lectual   apprehensions'    commentators 

that  very  k°nowing  nothing,  he  knows  differ.     The    context,    the    antithesis, 

what  transcends  the  mind  of  man.'—  and  the  parallel  passage  in  the  eariier 

De  Mvstica  Theologia,  cap.  i.  p.  710.  part  of  the  chapter,  justify  us  m  under- 

S  Dion   Areop.  0pp.  Paris,  1644.  standing  them  in  their  stnct  sense,  as 

So   again  he   exhorts  Timothv  '  by  conveying  the  idea  of  cessation  from 

assiduous  practice  in  mystical  contem-  all  mental  action  whatsoever, 
platious  to  abandon  the  senses  and  all 


c.  3.]  History  of  the  Word  Mysticism.  2  I 

Atherton.  This,  then,  is  our  result.  The  philosophical 
perfection  of  Alexandria  and  the  monastic  perfection  of  Byzan- 
tium  belong  to  the  same  species.  Philosopheis  and  monks 
alike  employ  the  word  mysticism  and  its  cognate  terms  as  in- 
volving the  idea,  not  merely  of  initiation  into  something  hidden, 
but,  beyond  this,  of  an  internal  manifestation  of  the  Divine  to 
the  intuition  or  in  the  feeling  of  the  secluded  soul.  It  is  in  this 
last  and  narrower  sense,  therefore,  that  the  word  is  to  be  under- 
stood when  we  speak  of  mystical  death,  mystical  illumination, 
mystical  union  with  God,  and,  in  fact,  throughout  the  phrase- 
ology of  what  is  specially  termed  Theologia  Mystica." 

GowER.  I  have  often  been  struck  by  the  surprising  variety 
in  the  forms  of  thought  and  the  modes  of  action  in  which  mys- 
ticism has  manifested  itself  among  different  nations  and  at  dif- 
ferent periods.  This  arises,  I  should  think,  from  its  residing  in 
so  central  a  province  of  the  mind— the  feeling.  It  has  been 
incorporated  in  theism,  atheism,  and  pantheism.  It  has  given 
men  gods  at  every  step,  and  it  has  denied  all  deity  except  self. 
It  has  appeared  in  the  loftiest  speculation  and  in  the  grossest 
idolatry.  It  has  been  associated  with  the  wildest  licence  and 
with  the  most  pitiless  asceticism.  It  has  driven  men  out  into 
action,  it  has  dissolved  them  in  ecstasy,  it  has  frozen  them  to 
torpor. 

Atherton.  Hence  the  difficulty  of  definition.  I  have  seen 
none  which  quite  satisfies  me.  Some  include  only  a  particular 
phase  of  it,  while  others  so  define  its  province  as  to  stigmatise 
as  mystical  every  kind  of  religiousness  which  rises  above  the 
zero  of  rationalism. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  Germans  have  two  words  for  mysticism — 
mystik  and  viysticismus.  Tiie  former  they  use  in  a  favourable, 
the  latter  in  an  unfavourable,  sense. — 

GowER.  Just  as  we  say  piety  and  pietism,  or  rationality  and 
s  See  Note,  p.  23. 


2  2  lntrodiictio7i.  [fi-  !• 

rationalism;  keeping   the   first   of  each  pair  for  the  use,  the 
second  for  the  abuse.     A  convenience,  don't  you  think? 

Atherton.  If  the  adjective  were  distinguishable  like  the 
nouns — but  it  is  not ;  and  to  have  a  distinction  in  the  primitive 
and  not  in  the  derivative  word  is  always  confusing.  But  we 
shall  keep  to  the  usage  of  our  own  language.  I  suppose  we 
shall  all  be  agreed  in  employing  the  word  mysticism  in  the  un- 
favourable signification,  as  equivalent  generally  to  spirituality 
diseased,  grown  unnatural,  fantastic,  and  the  like. 

GowER.  At  the  same  time  admitting  the  true  worth  of  many 
mystics,  and  the  real  good  and  truth  of  which  such  errors  are 
the  exaggeration  or  caricature. 

'^ffTEiei'ON.  I  think  we  may  say  thus  much  generally — that 
mysticism,  whether  in  religion  or  philosophy,  is  that  form  of 
error  which  mistakes  for  a  divine  manifestation  the  operations 
of  a  merely  human  faculty. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  There  you'Hefine,  at  any  rate,  the  characteristic 
misconception  of  the  mystics. 

GowER.  And  include,  if  I  mistake  not,  enthusiasts,  with  their 
visions  ;  pretended  prophets,  with  their  claim  of  inspiration ; 
wonder-workers,  trusting  to  the  divine  power  resident  in  their 
theurgic  formulas  ;  and  the  philosophers  who  believe  them- 
selves organs  of  the  world-soul,  and  their  systems  an  evolution 
of  Deity. 

Atherton.  Yes,  so  far ;  but  I  do  not  profess  to  give  any 
definition  altogether  adequate.  Speaking  of  Christian  mysti- 
cism, I  should  describe  it  generally  as  the  exaggeration  of  that 
aspect  of  Christianity  which  is  presented  to  us  by  St.  John. 

Gower.  That  answer  provokes  another  question.  How 
should  you  characterize  John's  peculiar  presentation  of  the 
Gospel  ? 

Atherton.  I  refer  chiefly  to  that  admixture  of  tlie  contem- 
plative temperament  and  the  ardent,  by  which  he  is  personally 


c.  3.]  Mystical  Theology.  23 

distinguished, — the  opposition  so  manifest  in  his  epistles  to  all 
religion  of  mere  speculative  opinion  or  outward  usage, — the 
concentration  of  Christianity,  as  it  were,  upon  the  inward  life 
derived  from  union  with  Christ.  This  would  seem  to  be  the 
province  of  Christian  truth  especially  occupied  by  the  beloved 
disciple,  and  this  is  the  province  which  mysticism  has  in  so 
many  ways  usurped. 

GowER.  Truly  that  unction  from  the  Holy  One,  of  which 
John  speaks,  has  found  some  strange  claimants  ! 
V  WTtxouGTTBY.  Thus  much  I  think  is  evident  from  our  enquiry 
— that  mysticism,  true  to  its  derivation  as  denoting  z.hidden  know- 
ledge, faculty,  or  life  (the  exclusive  privilege  of  sage,  adept,  or 
recluse),  presents  itself,  in  all  lts~pIiase5^,'^srmore  or~less  the 
religion  of  internal  as  opposed  to  external  revelation, — of  heated 
feeling,  sickly  sentiment,  or  lawless  imagination,  as  opposed  to 
that  reasonable  belief  in  which  the  intellect  and  the  heart,  the 
inward  witness  and  the  outward,  are  alike  engaged. 


V 


Note  to  page  21. 


Numerous  definitions  of  '  Mystical  Theology'  are  supplied  by  Roman 
Catliolic  divines  who  have  written  on  the  subject.  With  all  of  them  the  terms 
denote  the  religion  of  the  heart  as  distinguislied  from  speculation,  scholasticism, 
or  ritualism  ;  and,  moreover,  those  higher  experiences  of  tlie  divine  life  associ- 
ated, in  their  belief,  with  extraordinary  gifts  and  miraculous  powers.  Such 
definitions  will  accordingly  comprehend  the  theopathetic  and  theurgic  forms  of 
mysticism,  but  must  necessarily  exclude  the  theosophic.  Many  of  them  might 
serve  as  definitions  of  genuine  religion.  These  mystical  experiences  have  been 
always  coveted  and  admired  in  the  Romish  Churcli  ;  and  those,  therefore, 
who  write  concerning  them  employ  the  word  mysticism  in  a  highly  favourable 
sense.  That  excess  of  subjectivity — those  visionary  raptures  and  supernatural 
e.xaltations,  which  we  regard  as  tiie  symptoms  of  spiritual  disease,  are,  in  tlie 
eyes  of  these  writers,  the  choice  rewards  of  sufferings  and  of  aspirations  the 
most  intense, — they  are  the  vision  of  God  and  things  celestial  enjoyed  by  the 
pure  in  heart, — the  dazzling  glories  wherewith  God  has  crowned  the  heads  of  a 
chosen  few,  whose  example  sliall  give  light  to  all  the  world. 

Two  or  three  specimens  will  suffice.  Gerson  gives  the  two  following  defini- 
tions of  the  Theologia  Mystica  : — '  Est  animi  extensio  in  Deum  per  amoris 
desiderium.'  And  again  :  '  Est  motio  anagogica  in  Deum  per  purum  et  fervidum 
amorem.'  Elsewhere  he  is  more  metaphorical,  describing  it  as  the  tlieology 
which  teaches  men  to  escape  from  the  stormy  sea  of  sensuous  desires  to  the  safe 
harbour  of  Eternity,  and  shows  them  how  to  attain  that  love  which  snatches 


24  tntrodtiction.  [y-  i. 

them  away  to  the  Beloved,  unites  them  with  Him,  and  secures  them  rest  in 
Him.  Dionysius  tlie  Carthusian  (associating  evidently  mystica  and  myslo-iosa) 
says,—  '  Est  autem  mystica  Theologia  secretissima  mentis  cum  Deo  locutio." 
John  a  Jesu  Maria  calls  it,  '  cculestis  qua;dam  Dei  notitia  perunionem  voluntatis 
Deo  aclhserentis  elicita,  vel  luniine  ccelitus  immisso  producta.'  This  mystical 
theology,  observes  the  Carthusian  Dionysius,  farther,  (commentating  on  the 
Areopagite),  is  no  science,  properly  so  called  ;  even  regarded  as  an  act,  it  is 
simply  "the  concentration  (defixio)  of  the  mind  on  God — admiration  of  his 
majesty — a  suspension  of  the  mind  in  the  botmdless  and  eternal  hght — a  most 
fervid,  most  peaceful,  transforming  gaze  on  Deity,  &c. 

All  alike  contrast  the  mystical  with  the  scholastic  and  the  symbolical  theo- 
logy. The  points  of  dissimilarity  are  thus  summed  up  by  Cardinal  Bona  :^ 
'  Per  scholasticam  discit  homo  recte  uti  intelligibilibus,  per  symbolicam  sensi- 
bilibus,  per  hanc  (mysticam)  rapitur  ad  supermentales  excessus.  Scientioe 
humanas  in  valle  phantasise  discuntur,  ha^c  in  apice  mentis.  Illos  multis  egf  nt 
discursibus,  et  erroribus  subjectoe  sunt  :  haec  unico  et  simplici  verbo  docetur  et 
discitur,  et  est  mere  supernaturalis  tarn  in  substantia  quam  inmodoprocedendi.' 
•—  Via  Compendii  ad  Dcu?n,  cap.  iii.  1-3. 

The  definition  given  by  Corderius  in  his  introduction  to  the  mystical  theology 
of  Dionysius  is  modelled  on  the  mysticism  of  John  de  la  Cruz: — 'Theologia 
Mystica  est  sapientia  experimentalis,  Dei  affectiva,  divinitus  infusa,  quae 
mentem  ab  omni  inordinatione  purani,  per  actus  supernaturales  fidei,  spei, 
et  charitatis,  cum  Deo  intinie  conjungit.' — Isagoge,  cap.  ii. 

The  most  negative  definition  of  all  is  that  given  by  Fnchymeres,  the  Greek 
paraphrast  of  Dionysius,  who  has  evidently  caught  his  master's  mantle,  or  cloak 
of  darkness.  '  Mystical  theology  is  not  perception  cr  discourse,  not  a  movement 
of  the  mind,  not  an  operation,  not  a  habit,  nothing  that  any  other  power  we 
may  possess  will  bring  to  us  ;  but  if,  in  absolute  immobility  of  mind  we  are 
illumined  concerning  it,  we  shall  know  that  it  is  beyond  everything  cognizable 
by  the  mind  of  man.' — Dion.  0pp.  vol.  i.  p.  722. 

In  one  place  the  explanations  of  Corderius  give  us  to  understand  that  the 
mysticism  he  extols  does  at  least  open  a  door  to  theosophy  itself,  i.e.  to  inspired 
science.  He  declares  that  the  mystical  theologian  not  only  has  revealed  to 
him  the  hidden  sense  of  Scripture,  but  that  he  can  understand  and  pierce  the 
mysteries  of  any  natural  science  whatsoever,  in  a  way  quite  different  from  that 
possible  to  other  men — in  short,  by  a  kind  of  special  revelation. — Isagoge,  cap.  iv. 

The  reader  will  gather  the  most  adequate  notion  of  what  is  meant,  or  thought 
to  be  meant,  by  mystical  theology  from  the  description  given  by  Ludovic 
Blosius,  a  high  authority  on  matters  mystical,  in  his  Institutio  Spiritiialis. 
Corderius  cites  him  at  length,  as  '  sublimissimus  rerum  mysticarum  interpres.' 

Happy,  he  exclaims,  is  that  soul  which  steadfastly  follows  after  purity  of 
heart  and  holy  introversion,  renouncing  utterly  all  private  affection,  all  self-will, 
all  self-interest.  Such  a  soul  deserves  to  approach  nearer  and  ever  nearer  to 
God.  Then  at  length,  when  its  higher  powers  have  been  elevated,  purified, 
and  furnished  forth  by  divine  grace,  it  attains  to  unity  and  nudity  of  spirit — to 
a  pure  love  above  representation — to  that  simplicity  of  thought  which  is  devoid 
of  all  thinkings.  Now,  therefore,  since  it  hath  become  receptive  of  the  sur- 
passing and  ineffable  grace  of  God,  it  is  led  to  that  living  fountain  which 
flows  from  everlasting,  and  doth  refresh  the  minds  of  the  saints  unto  the  full 
and  in  over-measure.  Now  do  the  powers  of  the  soul  shine  as  the  stars,  and  she 
herself  is  fit  to  contemplate  the  abyss  of  Divinity  with  a  serene,  a  simple, 
and  a  jubilant  intuition,  free  from  imagination  and  'roin  tlie  smallest  admixture 
of  the  intellect.  Accordingly,  when  she  lovingly  turns  herself  absolutely  unto 
God,  the  incomprehensible  hght  shines  into  her  depths,  and  that  radiar.ee 


c.  3.]  Christian  Mysticism.  2  5 

blindi  'he  eye  of  reason  and  understanding.  But  the  simple  eye  of  the  soul 
itself  remains  open — that  is  thought,  pure,  naked,  uniform,  and  raised  above 
the  understanding. 

Moreover,  when  the  natural  light  of  reason  is  blinded  by  so  bright  a  glory, 
the  soul  takes  cognizance  of  nothing  in  time,  but  is  raised  above  time  and  space, 
and  assumes  as  it  were  a  certain  attribute  of  eternity.  For  the  soul  which  luii 
abandoned  symbols  and  earthly  distinctions  and  processes  of  thought,  now 
learns  experimentally  that  God  far  transcends  all  images — corporeal,  spiiitual, 
or  divine,  and  that  whatsoever  the  reason  can  apprehend,  wliatsoever  can  be 
said  or  written  concerning  God,  whatsoever  can  be  predicated  cf  Him  by 
words,  must  manifestly  be  infinitely  remote  from  the  reality  of  the  divine  sub- 
sistence which  is  unnameable.  The  soul  knows  not,  therefore,  what  that  (jod 
is  she  feels.  Hence,  by  a  foreknowledge  which  is  exercised  without  knowk-tlge, 
she  rests  in  the  nude,  the  simple,  the  unknown  God,  who  alone  is  to  be 
loved.  For  the  light  is  called  dark,  from  its  e.xcessive  brightness.  In  this 
darkness  the  soul  receives  the  hidden  word  which  God  utters  in  the  inward 
silence  and  secret  recess  of  the  mind.  This  word  she  receives,  and  doth  hap]:>ily 
experience  the  bond  of  mjstical  union.  For  when,  by  means  of  love,  she 
hath  transcended  reason  and  all  symbols,  and  is  carried  away  above  herself 
(a  favour  God  alone  can  procure  her),  straightway  she  flows  away  from  herstlf 
and  flows  forth  into  God  [a  se  dcjlticns  frojiuit  in  Dcum),  and  then  is  God  hei 
peace  and  her  enjoyment.  Rightly  doth  she  sing,  in  such  a  transport,  '  I  will 
both  lay  me  down  in  peace  and  sleep."  'I  he  loving  soul  flows  down,  I  say, 
falls  away  from  herself  and,  reduced  as  it  weie  to  nothing,  melts  and  glides 
away  altogether  into  the  abyss  of  eternal  love.  '1  here,  dead  to  herself,  she 
lives  in  God,  knowing  nothing,  perceiving  nothing,  except  the  love  she  tastes. 
For  she  loses  herself"  in  that  vastest  solitude  and  darkness  of  Divinity  :  but 
thus  to  lose  is  in  fact  to  find  herself.  There,  putting  off  whatsoeveris  human, 
and  putting  on  whatever  is  divine,  she  is  transformed  and  transmuted  into  God, 
as  iron  in  a  furnace  takes  the  form  of  fire  and  is  transmuted  into  fire. 
Nevertheless,  the  essence  of  the  soul  thus  deified  remains,  as  the  glowing  iron 
does  not  cease  to  be  iron.   .  .  . 

The  soul,"  thus  bathed  in  the  essence  of  God,  liquefied  by  the  consuming 
fire  of  love,  and  united  to  Him  without  medium,  doth,  by  wise  ignorance  and 
by  the  inmost  touch  of  love,  more  clearly  know  God  than  do  our  fleshly  eyes 
discern  the  visible  sun.  .   .   . 

Though  God  doth  sometimes  manifest  himself  unto  the  perfect  soul  in 
most  sublime  and  wondrous  wise,  yet  he  doth  not  reveal  himself  as  he  is  in  his 
own  ineffable  glory,  but  as  it  is  possible  for  him  to  be  seen  in  this  life. — Isagoge 
Cord.  cap.  vii. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 

Shelley. 

■\  1  HLLOUGHBY.  Here's  another  definition  for  you  :— 
^  ^     Mysticism  is  the  romance  of  religion.     What  do  you  say? 

GowER.  True  to  the  spirit — not  scientific.  I  fi;ar. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Science  be  banished  !  Is  not  the  history  of 
mysticism  bright  with  stories  of  dazzHng  spiritual  enterprise, 
sombre  with  tragedies  of  the  soul,  stored  with  records  of  the 
achievements  and  the  woes  of  martyrdom  and  saintship  ?  Has 
it  not  reconciled,  as  by  enchantment,  the'  most  opposite  ex- 
tremes of  theory  and  practice?  See  it,  in  theory,  verging 
repeatedly  on  pantheism,  ego-theism,  nihilism.  See  it,  in  prac- 
tice, producing  some  of  the  most  glorious  examples  of  humility, 
benevolence,  and  untiring  self-devotion.  Has  it  not  com- 
manded, with  its  indescribable  fascination,  the  most  powerful 
natures  and  the  most  feeble — minds  lofty  with  a  noble  disdain 
of  life,  or  low  with  a  weak  disgust  of  it?  If  the  self-torture  it 
enacts  seems  hideous  to  our  sobriety,  what  an  attraction  in  its 
reward  !  It  lays  waste  the  soul  with  purgatorial  pains — but  it 
is  to  leave  nothing  there  on  which  any  fire  may  kindle  after 
death.  What  a  promise  ! — a  perfect  sanctification,  a  divine 
calm,  fruition  of  heaven  while  yet  upon  the  earth  ! 

Atherton.  Go  on,  Willoughby,  I  like  your  enthusiasm. 
Think  of  its  adventures,  too. 


c.  4.]  Mysticism — its  Causes.  27 

WiLLouGHBV.  Aye,  its  adventures  -^^joth  -persecntcd  -and 
canonized  by  kings  and  pontiffs  ;  one  age  enrolling  the  mystic 
among  the  saints,  another  committing  him  to  the  inquisitor's 
torch,  or  entombing  him  in  the  Bastille.  And  the  principle 
indestructible  after  all — some  minds  always  who  must  be  reli- 
gious mystically  or  not  at  all. 

Atherton.  I  thought  we  might  this  evening  enquire  into 
the  causes  which  tend  continually  to  reproduce  this  religious 
phenomenon.  You  have  suggested  some  already.  Certain 
states  of  society  have  always  fostered  it.  There  have  been 
times  when  all  the  real  religion  existing  in  a  country  appears  to 
have  been  confined  to  its  mystics. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  In  such  an  hour,  how  mysticism  rises  and  does 
its  deeds  of  spiritual  chivalry 

GowER.  Alas  !  Quixotic  enough,  sometimes. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  How  conspicuous,  then,  grows  this  inward 
devotion  ! — even  the  secular  historian  is  compelled  to  say  a 
word  about  it 

Atherton.  And  a  sorry,  superficial  verdict  he  gives,  too 
often. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  How  loud  its  protest  against  literalism,  for- 
mality, scholasticism,  human  ordinances !  what  a  strenuous 
reaction  against  the  corruptions  of  priestcraft ! 

Atherton.  But,  on  the  other  side,  Willoughby — and  here 
comes  the  pathetic  part  of  its  romance — mysticism  is  heard 
discoursing  concerning  things  unutterable.  It  speaks,  as  one 
in  a  dream,  of  the  third  heaven,  and  of  celestial  experiences, 
and  revelations  fitter  for  angels  than  for  men.  Its  stammering 
utterance,  confused  with  excess  of  rapture  labouring  with  emo- 
tions too  huge  or  abstractions  too  subtile  for  words,  becomes 
utterly  unintelligible.  Then  it  is  misrepresented  :  falls  a  victim 
to  reaction  in  its  turn  ;  the  delirium  is  dieted  by  persecution, 
and  it  is  consigned  once  more  to  secrecy  and  silence. 


28  Introduction.  [«.  i. 

GowER.  There,  good  night,  and  pleasant  dreams  to  it ! 

WiLLoUGHBY.  It  spins  still  in  its  sleep  its  mingled  tissue  of 
good  and  evil. 

Atherton.  a  mixture  truly.  We  must  not  blindl)^  praise 
it  in  our  hatred  of  formalism.  We  must  not  vaguely  condemn 
it  in  our  horror  of  extravagance. 

GowER.  What  you  have  both  been  saying  indicates  at  once 
three  of  the  causes  we  are  in  search  of, — indeed,  the  three  chief 
ones,  as  I  suppose  :  first  of  all,  the  reaction  you  speak  of  against 
the  frigid  formality  of  religious  torpor ;  then,  heart-weariness, 
the  languishing  longing  for  repose,  the  charm  of  mysticism  for 
the  selfish  or  the  weak  ;  and,  last,  the  desire,  so  strong  in  some 
minds,  to  pierce  the  barriers  that  hide  from  man  the  unseen 
world — the  charm  of  mysticism  for  the  ardent  and  .he  strong. 

Atherton.  That  shrinking  from  conflict,  that  passionate 
yearning  after  inaccessible  rest,  how  universal  is  it ;  what  wist- 
ful utterance  it  has  found  in  every  nation  and  every  age ;  how 
it  subdues  us  all,  at  times,  and  sinks  us  into  languor. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Want  of  patience  lies  at  the  root — who  was 
it  said  that  he  should  have  all  eternity  to  rest  in  ? 

Atherton.  Think  how  the  traditions  of  every  people  have 
embellished  with  their  utmost  wealth  of  imagination  some  hid- 
den spot  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth,  which  they  have  pour- 
trayed  as  secluded  from  all  the  tumult  and  the  pain  of  time — 
a  serene  Eden — an  ever-sunny  Tempe — a  vale  of  Avalon — a 
place  beyond  the  sterner  laws  and  rougher  visitations  of  the 
common  world — a  fastness  of  perpetual  calm,  before  which  the 
tempests  may  blow  their  challenging  horns  in  vain — they  can 
win  no  entrance.  Such,  to  the  fancy  of  the  Middle  Age,  was 
the  famous  temple  of  the  Sangreal,  with  its  dome  of  sapphire, 
its  six-and-thirty  towers,  its  crystal  crosses,  and  its  hangings  of 
green  samite,  guarded  by  its  knights  girded  by  impenetrable 
forest,  glittering  on  the  onyx  summit  of  Mount  Salvage,  for 


c.  4-]  Weariness  of  the  World.  29 

ever  invisible  to  every  eye  impure,  inaccessible  to  every  failing 
or  faithless  heart.  Such,  to  the  Hindoo,  was  the  Cridavana 
meadow,  among  the  heights  of  Mount  Sitanta,  full  of  flowers, 
of  the  song  of  birds,  the  hum  of  bees — '  languishing  winds  and 
murmuring  falls  of  waters.'  Such  was  the  secret  mountain 
KinkaduUe,  celebrated  by  Olaus  Magnus,  which  stood  in  a 
region  now  covered  only  by  moss  or  snow,  but  luxuriant  once, 
in  less  degenerate  days,  with  the  spontaneous  growth  of  every 
pleasant  bough  and  goodly  fruit.  What  places  like  these  have 
been  to  the  popular  mind,  even  such  a  refuge  for  the  Ideal 
from  the  pursuit  of  the  Actual — that  the  attainment  of  Ecstasy, 
the  height  of  Contemplation,  the  bliss  of  Union,  has  been  for 
the  mystic. 

GowER.  So  those  spiritual  Lotos-eaters  will  only 


hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 


There  is  no  joy  but  calm 

or,   in  their  'fugitive   and   cloistered  virtue,'  as   Milton  calls 
it,  say, 

let  us  live  and  lie  reclined 

On  the  liills  like  gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 

Atherton.  Some;  not  all,  however.  Neither  should  we 
suppose  that  even  those  who  have  sunk  to  such  a  state 

WiLLOUGHBY.  They  would  say — risen — 

Atherton.  Be  it  by  sinking  or  rising,  they  have  not  been 
brouglit  to  that  pass  without  a  conflict.  From  Hfe's  battle-field 
to  the  hospital  of  the  hermitage  has  been  but  a  step  for  a  mul- 
titude of  minds.  Hiding  themselves  wounded  from  the  victor 
(for  the  enemy  they  could  not  conquer  shall  not  see  and  mock 
their  sufferings),  they  call  in  the  aid  of  an  imaginative  religion- 
ism to  people  their  solitude  with  its  glories.  The  Prometheus 
chained  to  his  rock  is  comforted  if  the  sea  nymphs  rise  from 
the  deep  to  visit  him,  and  Ocean  on  his  hippogriff  draws  near. 
And  thus,  let  the  gliding  fancies  of  a  life  of  dreams,  and  Ima- 


30  Introduction.  [b.  i. 

gination,  the  monarch  of  all  their  main  of  thought,  visit  the 
sorrow  of  these  recluses,  and  they  think  they  can  forget  the 
ravages  of  that  evil  which  so  vexed  them  once.  Hence  the 
mysticism  of  the  visionary.  He  learns  to  crave  ecstasies  and 
revelations  as  at  once  his  solace  and  his  pride. 

GowER.  Is  it  not  likely,  too,  that  some  of  these  mystics,  in 
seasons  of  mental  distress  of  which  we  have  no  record,  tried 
Nature  as  a  resource,  and  found  her  wanting  ?  Such  a  disap- 
pointment would  make  that  ascetic  theory  which  repudiates  the 
seen  and  actual,  plausible  and  even  welcome  to  them.  After 
demanding  of  the  natural  world  what  it  has  not  to  bestow,  they 
would  hurry  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  deny  it  any  healing 
influence  whatever.  Go  out  into  the  woods  and  valleys,  when 
your  heart  is  rather  harassed  than  bruised,  and  when  you  suffer 
from  vexation  more  than  grief  Then  the  trees  all  hold  out 
their  arms  to  you  to  relieve  you  of  the  burthen  of  your  heavy 
thoughts  ;  and  the  streams  under  the  trees  glance  at  you  as 
they  run  by,  and  will  carry  away  your  trouble  along  with  the 
fallen  leaves;  and  the  sweet-breathing  air  will  draw  it  off 
together  with  the  silver  multitudes  of  the  dew.  But  let  it  be 
with  anguish  or  remorse  in  your  heart  that  you  go  forth  into 
Nature,  and  instead  of  your  speaking  her  language,  you  make 
her  speak  yours.  Your  distress  is  then  infused  through  all 
things,  and  clothes  all  things,  and  Nature  only  echoes,  and 
seems  to  authenticate,  your  self-loathing  or  your  hopelessness. 
Then  you  find  the  device  of  your  sorrow  on  the  argent  shield  of 
the  moon,  and  see  all  the  trees  of  the  field  weeping  and  wring- 
ing their  hands  with  you,  while  the  hills,  seated  at  your  side  in 
sackcloth,  look  down  upon  you  prostrate,  and  reprove  you  like 
the  comforters  of  Job. 

Atherton.  Doubdess,  many  of  these  stricken  spirits  suffered 
such  disappointment  at  some  early  period  of  their  history. 
Failure  was  inevitable,  and  the  disease  was  heightened.     How 


c.  4.]  The  Fascination  of  tJie  Unseen.  3  i 

Coleridge  felt  this  when  he  says  so  mournfully  in  his  Ode  to 
Dejection, — 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life  whose  fountains  are  within. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  feeling  of  the  other  class  we  spoke  of — • 
the  men  of  bolder  temperament — has  been  this  :  '  I  am  a  king 
and  yet  a  captive ;  submit  I  cannot ;  I  care  not  to  dream  ;  I 
must  in  some  way  act.' 

GowER.  And,  like  Rasselas,  a  prince  and  yet  a  prisoner  in 
the  narrow  valley,  such  a  man,  in  his  impatience,  takes  counsel 
of  a  philosopher,  who  promises  to  construct  a  pair  of  wings 
wherewith  he  shall  overfly  the  summits  that  frown  around  him. 
The  mystagogue  is  a  philosopher  such  as  Rasselas  found,  with 
a  promise  as  large  and  a  result  as  vain. 

Atherton.  Hence  the  mysticism  of  the  theurgist,  who  will 
pass  the  bounds  of  the  dreaded  spirit-world  ;  will  dare  all  its 
horrors  to  seize  one  of  its  thrones  ;  and  aspires — a  Manfred  or 
a  Zanoni — to  lord  it  among  the  powers  of  the  air. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  of  the  mysticism  of  the  theosophist,  too, 
whose  science  is  an  imagined  inspiration,  who  writes  about 
plants  and  minerals  under  a  divine  afflatus,  and  who  will  give 
you  from  the  resources  of  his  special  revelation  an  explanation 
of  every  mystery. 

GowER.  The  explanation,  unhappily,  the  greatest  mystery 
of  all. 

Atherton.  Curiously  enough,  the  Bible  has  been  made  to 
support  mysticism  by  an  interpretation,  at  one  time  too  fanciful, 
at  another  too  literal. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  We  may  call  it,  perhaps,  the  innocent  cause 
of  mysticism  with  one  class,  its  victim  with  another  :  the  one, 
running  into  mysticism  because  they  wrongly  interpreted  the 


32  Introduction.  [)i-  i. 

Bible;  the  other  interpreting  it  wrongly  because  they  were 
mystics.  The  mystical  interpreters  of  school  and  cloister 
belong  to  the  latter  order,  and  many  a  Covenanter  and  godly 
trooper  of  the  Commonwealth  to  the  former. 

GowER.  Not  an  unlikely  result  with  the  zealous  Ironside — 
his  reading  limited  to  his  English  Bible  and  a  few  savoury 
treatises  of  divinity — pouring  over  the  warUke  story  of  ancient 
Israel,  and  identifying  himself  with  the  subjects  of  miraculous 
intervention,  divine  behest,  and  prophetic  dream.  How 
glorious  would  those  days  appear  to  such  a  man,  when  angels 
went  and  came  among  men ;  when,  in  the  midst  of  his  hus- 
bandry or  handicraft,  the  servant  of  the  Lord  might  be  called 
aside  to  see  some  'great  sight :'  when  the  fire  dropped  sudden 
down  from  heaven  on  the  accepted  altar,  like  a  drop  spilt  from 
the  lip  of  an  angel's  fiery  vial  full  of  odours ;  when  the  Spirit 
of  the  Lord  moved  men  at  times,  as  Samson  was  moved  in  the 
camp  of  Dan,  between  Zorah  and  Eshtaol ;  and  when  the 
Lord  sent  men  hither  and  thither  by  an  inward  impulse,  as 
Elijah  was  sent  from  Gilgal  to  Bethel,  and  from  Bethel  back  to 
Jericho,  and  from  Jericho  on  to  Jordan.  Imagination  would 
reproduce  those  marvels  in  the  world  within,  though  miracles 
could  no  longer  cross  his  path  in  the  world  -without.  He 
would  believe  that  to  him  also  words  were  given  to  speak, 
and  deeds  to  do ;  and  that,  whether  in  the  house,  the 
council,  or  the  field,  he  was  the  Spirit's  chosen  instrument 
and  messenger. 

Atherton.  I'his  is  the  practical  and  active  kind  of  mysti- 
cism so  prevalent  in  that  age  of  religious  wars,  the  seventeenth 
century. 

WiLLouGHBY.  The  monks  took  the  opposite  course.  While 
the  Parliamentarian  soldier  was  often  seen  endeavouring  to 
adapt  his  life  to  a  mistaken  application  of  the  Bible,  the  ascetic 
endeavoured  to  adapt  the  Bible  to  his  mistaken  life. 


c.  4.]  TJic  Fascination  of  the  Unseen.  3  3 

GowER.  The  New  Testament  not  authorising  the  austerities 
of  a  Macarius  or  a  Maximus,  tradition  must  be  called  in 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  side  by  side  with  tradition,  n"i)'stical  in- 
terpretation. The  Bible,  it  was  pretended,  must  not  be  under- 
stood as  always  meanitig  what  it  seems  to  mean. 

ATHERroN.  It  then  becomes  the  favourite  employment  of 
the  monk  to  detect  this  hidden  meaning,  and  to  make  Scripture 
render  to  tradition  the  same  service  which  the  mask  rendered 
to  the  ancient  actor,  not  only  disguising  the  face,  but  making 
the  words  go  farther.  To  be  thus  busied  was  to  secure  two 
advantages  at  once  ;  he  had  occupation  for  his  leisure,  and  an 
answer  for  his  adversaries. 


VOT..  T. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Oh  !  contemplation  palls  upon  the  spirit, 
Like  the  chill  silence  of  an  autumn  sun  : 
While  action,  like  the  roaring  south-west  wind, 
Sweeps,  laden  with  elixirs,  with  rich  draughts 
Quickening  the  wombed  earth. 

Giita.  And  yet  what  bhss, 

When,  dying  in  the  darkness  of  God's  light, 
The  soul  can  pierce  these  blinding  webs  of  nature, 
And  float  up  to  the  nothing,  which  is  all  things — 
The  ground  of  being,  where  self-forgetful  silence 
Is  emptiness, — emptiness  fulness, — fulness  God, — ■ 
Till  we  touch  Him,  and,  like  a  snow-flake,  melt 
Upon  his  light-sphere's  keen  circumference  ! 

The  Saint's  Tfagedy. 

/"^OWER.  Thanks,  if  you  please,  not  reproaches.  I  was 
^-^  caUing  help  for  you,  I  was  summoning  the  fay  to  your 
assistance,  to  determine  the  best  possible  order  of  your  mystics. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  fay  ? 

GowER.  The  fay.  Down  with  you  in  that  arm-chair,  and 
sit  quietly.  Know  that  I  was  this  morning  reading  Andersen's 
Marchen — all  about  Ole-Luk-Oie,  his  ways  and  works — the 
queer  little  elf.  Upstairs  he  creeps,  in  houses  where  children 
are,  softly,  softly,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  with  what  do  you 
think  under  his  arm?- — two  umbrellas,  one  plain,  the  othei 
covered  with  gay  colours  and  quaint  figures.  He  makes  the 
eyes  of  the  children  heavy,  and  when  they  are  put  to  bed,  holds 
over  the  heads  of  the  good  children  the  painted  umbrella,  which 
causes  them  to  dream  the  sweetest  and  most  wonderful  dreams 
imaginable ;  but  over  the  naughty  children  he  holds  the  other, 
and  they  do  not  dream  at  all.  Now,  thought  I,  let  me  emulate 
the  profundity  of  a  German  critic.     Is  this  to  be  treated  as  a 


c.  5-]  A  Fairy  Talc.  35 

simple  child's  tale  ?  Far  from  it.  There  is  a  depth  of  philo- 
sophic meaning  in  it.  Have  not  the  mystics  been  mostly 
.  childlike  natures  ?  Have  not  their  lives  been  full  of  dreams, 
manifold  and  strange — and  they  therefore,  if  any,  especial 
favourites  of  Ole-Luk-Oie  ?  They  have  accounted  their  dreams 
tlieir  pride  and  their  reward.  They  have  looked  on  the  sobriety 
of  dreamlessness  as  the  appropriate  deprivation  of  privilege 
consequent  on  carnality  and  ignorance ;  in  other  words,  the 
non-dreamers  have  been  with  them  the  naughty  children.  To 
learn  life's  lessons  well  is,  according  to  them,  to  enjoy  as  a 
recompence  the  faculty  of  seeing  visions  and  of  dreaming  dreams. 
Here  then  is  the  idea  of  mysticism.  You  have  its  myth,  its 
legend.  Ole-Luk-Oie  is  its  presiding  genius.  Now,  Atherton, 
if  you  could  but  get  hold  of  his  umbrella,  the  segments  of  that 
silken  hemisphere,  with  its  painted  constellations,  would  give 
you  your  divisions  in  a  twinkling.  That  was  why  I  wanted 
him.  But  I  do  not  see  him  letting  himself  down  the  bellrope, 
or  hear  his  tap  at  the  door.  I  am  afraid  we  must  set  to  work 
without  him. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  be  it.  A  local  or  historical  classification 
of  the  mystics  is  out  of  the  question.  I  scarcely  think  you  can 
find  a  metaphysical  one  that  will  bear  the  test  of  application 
and  be  practically  serviceable.  Then  the  division  some  adopt, 
of  heterodox  and  orthodox,  saves  trouble  indeed,  but  it  is  so 
arbitrary.  The  Church  of  Rome,  from  whom  many  of  these 
mystics  called  heretical,  dared  to  differ,  is  no  church  at  all  in  the 
true  sense,  and  assuredly  no  standard  of  orthodoxy.  In  addi- 
tion to  this  I  have  a  nervous  antipathy  to  the  terms  themselves ; 
for,  as  I  have  a  liking  for  becoming  the  champion  of  any  cause 
which  appears  to  be  borne  down  by  numbers,  I  find  my  friends 
who  are  somewhat  heterodox,  frequently  charging  me  with  what 
is  called  orthodoxy,  and  those  again  who  are  orthodox  as  often 
suspecting  me  of  heterodoxy. 

D  2 


36  Introduction.  [b.  t. 

Atherton.  Hear  my  proposed  division.  There  are  three 
kinils  of  mysticism,  theopathetic,  theosophic,  and  theurgic.  The 
first  of  these  three  classes  I  will  subdivide,  if  needful,  into  tran- 
sitive and  intransitive. 

GowER.  Your  alliteration  is  grateful  to  my  ear ;  I  hope  you 
have  not  strained  a  point  to  secure  us  the  luxury. 

Atherton.  Not  a  hair's  breadth,  I  assure  you. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Etymologically  such  a  division  has  the  advan- 
tage of  showing  that  all  the  forms  of  mysticism  are  develop- 
ments of  ihQ  religious  sentiment;  that  in  all  its  varieties  the 
relationship,  real  or  imaginary,  which  mysticism  sustains  to  the 
Divine,  is  its  primary  element; — that  its.  widely  differing 
aspects  are  all  phases  it  presents  in  its  eccentric  orbit  about 
the  central  luminary  of  the  Infinite. 

GowER.  Your  theopathetic  mysticism  must  include  a  very 
wide  range.  By  the  term  theopathetic  you  denote,  of  course, 
that  mysticism  which  resigns  itself,  in  a  passivity  more  or  less 
absolute,  to  an  imagined  divine  manifestation.  Now,  one  man 
may  regard  himself  as  overshadowed,  another  as  impelled  by 
Deity.  One  mystic  of  this  order  may  do  nothing,  another  may 
display  an  unceasing  activity.  Whether  he  beUeves  himself  a 
mirror  in  whose  quiescence  the  Divinity  'glasses  himself;'  or, 
as  it  were,  a  leaf,  driven  by  the  mighty  rushing  wind  of  the 
Spirit,  and  thus  the  tongue  by  which  the  Spirit  speaks,  the 
organ  by  which  God  works — the  principle  of  passivity  is  the 
fame. 

Atherton.  Hence  my  subdivision  of  this  class  of  mystics 
into  those  whose  mysticism  assumes  a  transitive  character,  and 
those  with  whom  mysticism  consists  principally  in  contem- 
plation, in  Quietism,  in  negation,  and  so  is  properly  called 
intransitive. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  somc  of  those  whose  mysticism  has  been 
pre-eminently   negative,    who   have   hated   the  very  name  of 


e.  c;.*|  Theopathetic  Mysticism.  ^  7 

speculation,  and  placed  perfection  in  repose  and  mystical 
death,  have  mingled  much  in  active  life.  They  appear  to  defy 
our  arrangement. 

Atherton.  It  is  only  in  appearance.  They  have  shrunk  from 
carrying  out  their  theory  to  its  logical  consequences.  Their 
activity  has  been  a  bye-work.  The  diversities  of  character 
observable  in  the  mysticism  which  is  essentially  intransitive 
arise,  not  from  a  difference  in  the  principle  at  the  root,  but  from 
varieties  of  natural  temperament,  of  external  circumstances,  and 
from  the  dissimilar  nature  or  proportion  of  the  foreign  elements 
incorporated. 

GowER.  It  is  clear  that  we  must  be  guided  by  the  rule  rather 
than  the  exception,  and  determine,  according  to  the  predomi- 
nant element  in  the  mysticism  of  individuals,  the  position  to  be 
assigned  them.  If  we  were  to  classify  only  those  who  were 
perfectly  consistent  with  themselves,  we  could  include  scarcely 
])alf-a-dozen  names,  and  those,  by  the  way,  the  least  rational 
of  all,  for  the  most  thorough-going  are  the  madmen. 

Atherton.  The  mysticism  of  St.  Bernard,  for  example,  in 
spite  of  his  preaching,  his  travels,  his  diplomacy,  is  altogether 
contemplative — the  intransitive  mysticism  of  the  cloister.  His 
active  labours  were  a  work  apart. 

GowER.  Such  men  have  been  serviceable  as  members  of 
society  in  proportion  to  their  inconsistency  as  devotees  of 
mysticism.     A  heavy  charge  this  against  their  principle. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  In  the  intransitive  division  of  the  theopathetic 
mysticism  you  will  have  three  such  names  as  Suso,  Ruys- 
brook,  Molinos,  and  all  the  Quietists,  whether  French  or 
Indian. 

Atherton.  And  in  the  transitive  theopathy  all  turbulent 
prophets  and  crazy  fanatics.  This  species  of  mysticism  usurps 
the  will  more  than  the  emotional  part  of  our  nature.  The  sub- 
ject of  it  suffers  under  the  Divine,  as  he  believes,  but  the  result 


38  Introduction.  t^.  i. 

of  the  manifestation  is  not  confined  to  himself,  it  passes  on  to 
his  fellows. 

GowER.  If  you  believe  Plato  in  the  Ion,  you  must  range 
here  all  the  poets,  for  they  sing  well,  he  tells  us,  only  as  they 
are  carried  out  of  themselves  by  a  divine  madness,  and  mastered 
by  an  influence  which  their  verse  communicates  to  others  in 
succession. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  We  must  admit  here  also,  according  to 
ancient  superstition,  the  Pythoness  on  her  tripod,  and  the 
Sibyl  in  her  cave  at  Cumae,  as  she  struggles  beneath  the  might 
of  the  god  :— 

Plioebi  nondum  patiens  immanis  in  antro 
Bacchatur  vates,  magnum  si  pcctore  possit 
Excussisse  Deum  :  tanto  magis  ille  fatigat 
Os  rabidum,  feia  corda  domans,  fingitque  premendo. 

Atherton.  I  have  no  objection.  According  to  Virgil's 
description,  the  poor  Sibyl  has  earned  painfully  enough  a  place 
within  the  pale  of  mysticism.  But  those  with  whom  we  have 
more  especially  to  do  in  this  province  are  enthusiasts  such  as 
Tanchelm,  who  appeared  in  the  twelfth  century,  and  announced 
himself  as  the  residence  of  Deity  ;  as  Gichtel,  who  believed  him- 
self appointed  to  expiate  by  his  prayers  and  penance  the  sins  of 
all  mankind ;  or  as  Kuhlmann,  who  traversed  Europe,  the 
imagined  head  of  the  Fifth  monarchy,  summoning  kings  and 
nobles  to  submission. 

GowER.  Some  of  these  cases  we  may  dismiss  in  a  summary 
manner.  The  poor  brainsick  creatures  were  cast  on  evil  times 
indeed.  What  we  should  now  call  derangement  was  then  exalted 
into  heresy,  and  honoured  with  martyrdom.  We  should  have 
taken  care  that  Kuhlmann  was  sent  to  an  asylum,  but  the  Russian 
patriarch  burned  him,  poor  fellow. 

Atherton.  We  must  not  forget,  however,  that  this  species 
of  mysticism  has  sometimes  been  found  associated  with  the 
announcement  of  vital  truths  Look  at  George  Fox  and  the 
early  Quakers 


c.  5.]  Theosophy.  39 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Aiid  I  would  refer  also  to  this  class  some  of 
the  milder  forms  of  mysticism,  in  which  it  is  seen  rather  as  a 
single  morbid  element  than  as  a  principle  avowed  and  carried 
out.  Jung  Stilling  is  an  instance  of  what  I  mean.  You  see 
him,  fervent,  earnest,  and  yet  weak ;  without  forethought,  with- 
out perseverance  ;  ^'aiIl  and  irresolute,  he  changes  his  course 
incessantly,  seeing  in  every  variation  of  feeling  and  of  circum-' 
stance  a  special  revelation  of  the  Divine  will. 

Atherton.  Add  to  this  modification  a  kindred  error,  the 
doctrine  of  a  ^particular  faith'  in  prayer,  so  much  in  vogue  in 
Cromwell's  court  at  Whitehall.  Howe  boldly  preached  against 
it  before  the  Protector  himself. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Now,  Athertou,  for  your  second  division, 
Iheosophic  mysticism.     Whom  do  you  call  theosophists  ? 

Atherton.  Among  the  Germans  I  find  mysticism  generally 
called  theosophy  when  applied  to  natural  science.  Too  narrow 
a  use  of  the  word,  I  think.  We  should  have  in  that  case  scarcely 
any  theosophy  in  Europe  till  after  the  Reformation.  The  word 
itself  was  first  employed  by  the  school  of  Porphyry.  The  Neo- 
Platonist  would  say  that  the  priest  might  have  his  traditional 
discourse  concerning  God  (theology),  but  he  alone,  with  his 
intuition,  the  highest  wisdom  concerning  him. 

GowER.  I  can't  say  that  I  have  any  clear  conception  attached 
to  the  word. 

Atherton.  You  want  examples?  Take  Plotinus  and 
Behmen. 

GowER.  What  a  conjunction  ! 

Atherton.  Not  so  far  apart  as  may  appear.  Their  difference 
is  one  of  application  more  than  of  principle.  Had  Plotinus 
thought  a  metal  or  a  plant  worth  his  attention,  he  would  have 
maintained  that  concerning  that,  even  as  concerning  the  infinite, 
all  truth  lay  stored  within,  the  recesses  of  his  own  mind.  But.  of 
course  he  only  cared  about  ideas.  Mystical  philosophy  is  really 
a  contradiction  in  terms,  is  it  not  ? 


40  Introduction.  [b.  i. 

GowER.  Granted,  since  philosophy  must  build  only  upon 
reason. 

Atherton.  Very  good.  Then  when  philosophy  falls  into 
mysticism  I  give  it  another  name,  and  call  it  theosophy.  And, 
on  the  otlier  side,  I  call  mysticism,  trying  to  be  philosophical, 
theosophy  likewise.     That  is  all. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  that  the  theosophist  is  one  who  gives  you 
a  theory  of  God,  or  of  the  works  of  God,  which  has  not  reason, 
but  an  inspiration  of  his  own  for  its  basis. 

Ather  roN.  Yes ;  he  either  believes,  with  Swedenborg  and 
Behmen,  that  a  special  revelation  has  unfolded  to  him  the 
mystery  of  the  divine  dispensations  here  or  hereafter — laid 
bare  the  hidden  processes  of  nature,  or  the  secrets  of  the  other 
world  ;  or  else,  with  Plotinus  and  Schelling,  he  believes  that 
his  intuitions  of  those  things  are  infallible  because  divine — 
subject  and  object  being  identical, — all  truth  being  within 
him.  Thus,  while  the  mystic  of  the  theopathetic  species  is 
content  to  contemplate,  to  feel,  or  to  act,  suffering  under  Deity 
in  his  sublime  passivity,  the  mysticism  I  term  theosophic  aspires 
to  know  and  believes  itself  in  possession  of  a  certain  super- 
natural divine  faculty  for  that  purpose. 

GowER.  You  talk  of  mysticism  trying  to  be  philosophical ; 
it  does  then  sometimes  seek  to  justify  itself  at  the  bar  of 
reason? 

Atherton.  I  should  think  so — often  :  at  one  time  trying 
to  refute  the  charge  of  madness  and  prove  itself  throughout 
rational  and  sober;  at  another,  using  the  appeal  to  reason  up 
to  a  certain  point  and  as  far  as  serves  its  purpose,  and  then 
disdainfully  mocking  at  demands  for  proof,  and  towering  above 
argument,  with  the  pretence  of  divine  illumination. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Some  of  these  mystics,  talking  of  reason  as 
they  do,  remind  me  of  Lysander  at  the  feet  of  Helena,  protest- 
ing (with  the  magic  juice  scarce  dry  upon  his  eyelids)  that  tlie 


c.  5.]  Theosophy.  41 

decision  of  his  spell-bound  faculties  is  the  deliberate  exercise 
of  manly  judgment — 

The  mind  of  man  is  by  his  reason  swayed, 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 

GovvER.  Now  you  come  to  Shakspeare,  I  must  cap  your 
quotation  with  another :  I  fit  those  mystics  Atherton  speaks  of 
as  using  reason  up  to  a  certain  point  and  then  having  done  with 
it,  with  a  motto  from  the  Winter's  Tale — much  at  their  service. 
Tliey  answer,  with  young  enamoured  Florizel,  when  Reason, 
like  a  grave  Camillo,  bids  them  '  be  advised' — 

I  am  ;  and  by  my  fancy  :  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason  ; 
If  not,  my  senses  better  pleased  with  madrcss 
Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Atherton.  To  classify  the  mystics  adequately,  we  should 
have  a  terminology  of  dreams  rich  as  that  of  Homer,  and  dis- 
tinguish, as  he  does,  the  dream-image  of  complete  illusion  from 
the  half-conscious  dream  between  sleeping  and  waking ;— ovop 
from  v-Kop.  How  unanimous,  by  the  way,  would  the  mystics  be 
in  deriving  uvupov  from  vvuqq — dream  from  enjoyment. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  To  return  from  the  poets  to  business  ;  was 
not  all  the  science  of  the  Middle  Age  theosophic  rather  than 
philosophic?  Both  to  mystical  schoolmen  and  scholastic 
mystics  the  Bible  was  a  book  of  symbols  and  propositions,  from 
which  all  the  knowable  was  somehow  to  be  deduced. 

Atherton.  Most  certainly.  The  mystical  interpretation  of 
Scripture  was  their  measuring-reed  for  the  temple  of  the 
universe.  The  difference,  however,  between  them  and  Behmen 
would  be  this — that,  while  both  essayed  to  read  the  book  of 
nature  by  the  light  of  grace,  Behmen  claimed  a  special  revela- 
tion, a  divine  mission  for  unfolding  these  mysteries  in  a  new 
fashion  ;  schoolmen,  like  Richard  of  St.  Victor,  professed  to  do 
so  only  by  the  supernatural  aid  of  the  Spirit  illuminating  the 
data  afforded  by  the  Church.     And  again,  Behmen  differs  from 


42  ttitroduction.  [b.  i. 

Schelling  and  modern  theosophy  in  studying  nature  through 
the  medium  of  an  external  revelation  mystically  understood, 
while  they  interpret  it  by  the  unwritten  inward  revelation  of 
Intellectual  Intuition.  I  speak  only  of  the  difference  of 
principle,  not  of  result.  But  no  one  will  dispute  that  nearly 
every  scientific  enquiry  of  the  Middle  Age  was  conducted  on 
mystical  principles,  whether  as  regarded  our  source  of  knowing 
or  its  method. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  what  wonder?  Does  not  Milton  remind 
us  that  Julian's  edict,  forbidding  Christians  the  study  of  heathen 
learning,  drove  the  two  Apollinarii  to  '  coin  all  the  seven  liberal 
sciences'  out  of  the  Bible  ?  The  jealous  tyranny  of  the  Papacy 
virtually  perpetuated  the  persecution  of  the  Apostate.  Every 
lamp  must  be  filled  with  church  oil.  Every  kind  of  knowledge 
must  exist  only  as  a  decoration  of  the  ecclesiastical  structure. 
Every  science  must  lay  its  foundation  on  theology.  See  a 
monument  attesting  this,  a  type  of  the  times,  in  the  cathedral 
of  Chartres,  covered  with  thousands  of  statues  and  symbols, 
representing  all  the  history,  astronomy,  and  physics  of  the 
age — a  sacred  encyclopaedia  transferred  from  the  pages  of 
Vincent  of  Beauvais  to  the  enduring  stone,  so  to  bid  all  men 
see  in  the  Church  a  Mirror  of  the  Universe — a  speculum  uni- 
versale. Who  can  be  surprised  that  by  the  aid  of  that  facile 
expedient,  mystical  interpretation,  many  a  work  of  mortal 
brain  should  have  been  bound  and  lettered  as  '  Holy  Bible,'  or 
that  research  should  have  simulated  worship,  as  some  Cantab, 
pressed  for  time,  may  study  a  problem  at  morning  chapel  ? 

Atherton.  What  interminable  lengths  of  the  fine-spun,  gay- 
coloured  ribbons  of  allegory  and  metaphor  has  the  mountebank 
ingenuity  of  that  mystical  interpretation  drawn  out  of  the 
mouth  of  Holy  Writ ! 

GowER.  And  made  religion  a  toy — a  tassel  on  the  silken 
purse  of  the  spendthrift  Fancy. 


c.  5, 


Des  caries.  43 


WiLLOUGHBY.  Granting,  Atherton,  your  general  position 
that  the  undue  inference  of  the  objective  from  the 'subjective 
produces  mysticism,  what  are  we  to  say  of  a  man  hke  Des- 
cartes, for  example  ?  You  will  not  surely  condemn  liim  as  a 
mystic. 

Atherton.  Certainly,  not  altogether;  reason  holds  its  own 
with  him— is  not  swept  away  by  the  hallucinations  of  senti- 
ment, or  feeling,  or  special  revelation  ;  but  none  of  our  powers 
act  quite  singly — nemo  omnibus  horis  sapit — a  mystical  element 
crops  out  here  and  there.  I  think  he  carried  too  far  the  appli- 
cation of  a  principle  based,  in  great  part  at  least,  on  truth.  In 
his  inference  of  the  objective  from  the  subjective,  I  think  he 
was  so  far  right  that  our  ability  to  conceive  of  a  Supreme  Per- 
fection affords  a  strong  presumption  that  such  a  God  must  exist. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  conception  can  transcend  the 
reality.  His  argument  from  within  is  a  potent  auxiliary  of  the 
argument  from  without,  if  not  by  itself  so  all-sufficient  as  he 
supposes.  There  are,  too,  I  think,  certain  necessary  truths 
which,  by  the  constitution  of  our  mind,  we  cannot  conceive  as 
possibly  other  than  they  are,  when  once  presented  to  us  from 
without.  But  we  surely  should  not  on  this  account  be  justified 
in  saying  with  the  mystic  Bernard,  that  each  soul  contains  an 
infallible  copy  of  the  ideas  in  the  Divine  Mind,  so  that  the 
pure  in  heart,  in  proportion  as  they  have  cleansed  the  internal 
mirror,  must  in  knowing  themselves,  know  also  God.  It  must 
be  no  less  an  exaggeration  of  the  truth  to  say,  with  the  philo- 
sopher Descartes,  that  certain  notions  of  the  laws  of  Nature 
are  impressed  upon  our  minds,  so  that  we  may,  after  reflecting 
upon  them,  discover  the  secrets  of  the  universe.^  On  the 
strength  of  this  principle  he  undertakes  to  determine  exactly 
how  long  a  time  it  must  have  required  to  reduce  chaos  to  order. 
The  effort  made  by  Descartes  to  insulate  himself  completely 
from  the  external  world  and  the  results  of  experience,  was  cer- 


44  Introdjiction.  [n.  i. 


tainly  similar  in  mode,  though  very  different  in  its  object,  from 
the  endeavours  after  absolute  self-seclusion  made  by  many  of 
the  mystics.  The  former  sought  to  detect  by  abstraction  the 
laws  of  mind ;  the  latter,  to  attain  the  vision  of  God. 

GowER.  There  is  much  more  of  mysticism  discernible  in 
some  of  the  systems  which  hive  followed  in  the  path  opened 
by  Descartes.  What  can  be  more  favouiable  than  Schelling's 
Jdaitiiy  principle  to  the  error  which  confounds,  rather  than 
allies,  physics  and  metaphysics,  science  and  theology  ? 

Athfrton.  Behmen  himself  is  no  whit  more  fantastical  in 
this  way  than  Oken  and  Franz  Baader. 

GowER.  These  theosophies,  old  and  new,  with  their  self- 
evolved  inexplicable  explanations  of  everything,  remind  me  of 
the  Frenchman's  play-bill  announcing  an  exhibition  of  the  Uni- 
versal Judgment  by  means  of  three  thousand  five  hundred 
puppets.  The  countless  marionette  figures  in  the  brain  of  the 
theosophist — Elements,  Forms,  Tinctures,  Mothers  of  Nature, 
Fountain-spirits,  Planetary  Potencies,  &c.,  are  made  to  shift 
and  gesticulate  unceasingly,  through  all  possible  permutations 
and  combinations,  and  the  operator  has  cried  '  Walk  in  !'  so 
long  and  loudly,  that  he  actually  believes,  while  pulling  the 
wires  in  his  metaphysical  darkness,  that  the  great  universe  is 
being  turned  and  twitched  after  the  same  manner  as  his  painted 
dolls. 

WiLLouGHBY.  I  must  put  in  a  word  for  men  like  Paracelsus 
and  Cornelius  Agrippa.  They  helped  science  out  of  the  hands 
of  Aristotle,  baptized  and  spoiled  by  monks.  Europe,  newly- 
wakened,  follows  in  search  of  truth,  as  the  princess  in  the  fairy- 
tale her  lover,  changed  into  a  white  dove ;  now  and  then,  at 
weary  intervals,  a  feather  is  dropped  to  give  a  clue  ;  these  aspi- 
rants caught  once  and  again  a  little  of  the  precious  snowy 
down,  though  often  filling  their  hands  with  mere  dirt,  and 
wounding  them  among  the  briars.     Forgive  them  their  signa- 


c.  5.]  Religious  E^iphuism.  45 

tures,  their  basilisks  and  homunculi,  and  all  their  restless, 
wrathful  arrogance,  for  the  sake  of  that  indomitable  hardihood 
which  did  life-long  battle,  single-handed,  against  enthroned 
prescription. 

Atherton.  With  all  my  heart.  How  venial  the  error  of 
their  mysticism  (with  an  aim,  at  least,  so  worthy),  compared 
with  that  of  the  enervating  Romanist  theopathy  whose  '  holy 
vegetation'  the  Reformers  so  rudely  disturbed.  On  the  eve  of 
the  Reformation  you  see  hapless  Christianity,  after  vanquishing 
so  many  powerful  enemies,  about  to  die  by  the  hand  of  ascetic 
inventions  and  superstitions,  imaginary  sins  and  imaginary  vir- 
tues,— the  shadowy  phantoms  of  monastic  darkness ;  like  the 
legendary  hero  Wolf-Dietrich,  who,  after  so  many  victories  over 
flesh-and-blood  antagonists,  perishes  at  last  in  a  night-batde 
with  ghosts. 

GowER.  The  later  mystical  saints  of  the  Romish  calendar 
seem  to  me  to  exhibit  what  one  may  call  the  degenerate  chivalry 
of  religion,  rather  than  its  romance.  How  superior  is  Bernard 
to  John  of  the  Cross  !  It  is  easy  to  see  how,  in  a  rough  age  of 
fist-law,  the  laws  of  chivalry  may  inculcate  courtesy  and  en- 
noble courage.  ]jut  when  afterwards  an  age  of  treaties  and 
diplomacy  comes  in — when  no  Charles  the  Bold  can  be  a  match 
for  the  Italian  policy  of  a  Louis  XI. — then  these  laws  sink  down 
into  a  mere  fantastic  code  of  honour.  For  the  manly  gallantry 
of  Ivanhoe  we  have  the  euphuism  of  a  Sir  Piercie  Shafton. 
And  so  a  religious  enthusiasm,  scarcely  too  fervent  for  a  really 
noble  enterprise  (could  it  only  find  one),  gives  birth,  when 
debarred  from  the  air  of  action  and  turned  back  upon  itself,  to 
the  dreamy  extravagances  of  the  recluse,  and  the  morbid  ethical 
j)unctilios  of  the  Director. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  only  further  question  is  about  your  third 
division,  Atherton, — theurgic  mysticism.  We  may  let  the  Rab- 
binical Solomon — mastering  the  archdaemon  Aschmedai  and  all 


46  Introduction.  [b.  1. 

his  host  by  the  divine  potency  of  the  Schemhamporasch  engraven 
on  his  ring,  chaining  at  his  will  the  colossal  powers  of  the  air 
by  the  tremendous  name  of  Metatron, — stand  as  an  example  of 
theurgy. 

GowER.  And  lamblichus,  summoning  Souls,  Heroes,  and  the 
Principalities  of  the  upper  sphere,  by  prayer  and  incense  and 
awful  mutterings  of  adjuration. 

Atherton.  All  very  good ;  but  hear  me  a  moment.  I  would 
use  the  term  theurgic  to  characterize  the  mysticism  which  claims 
supernatural  powers  generally, — works  marvels,  not  like  the 
black  art,  by  help  from  beneath,  but  as  white  magic,  by  the 
virtue  of  talisman  or  cross,  demi-god,  angel,  or  saint.  Thus 
theurgic  mysticism  is  not  content,  like  the  theopathetic,  with 
either  feeling  or  proselytising ;  nor,  like  the  theosophic,  Avith 
knowing ;  but  it  must  open  for  itself  a  converse  with  the  world 
of  spirits,  and  win  as  its  prerogative  the  power  of  miracle.  This 
broad  use  of  the  word  makes  prominent  the  fact  that  a  common 
principle  of  devotional  enchantment  lies  at  the  root  of  all  the 
pretences,  both  of  heathen  and  of  Christian  miracle-mongers. 
The  celestial  hierarchy  of  Dionysius  and  the  benign  daemons  of 
Proclus,  the  powers  invoked  by  Pagan  or  by  Christian  theurgy, 
by  Platonist,  by  Cabbalist,  or  by  saint,  alike  reward  the  success- 
ful aspirant  with  supernatural  endowments ;  and  so  far  Apol- 
lonius  of  Tyana  and  Peter  of  Alcantara,  Asclepigenia  and  St. 
.  Theresa,  must  occupy  as  religious  magicians  the  same  province. 
The  error  is  in  either  case  the  same — a  divine  efficacy  is  attri- 
buted to  rites  and  formulas,  sprinklings  or  fumigations,  relics 
or  incantations,  of  mortal  manufacture. 

WiLLouGHBY.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  how,  after  a 
time,  both  the  species  of  mysricism  we  have  been  discussing  may 
pass  over  into  this  one.  It  is  the  dream  of  the  mystic  that  he 
can  elaborate  from  the  depth  of  his  own  nature  the  whole  pro- 
^mised  land  of  religious  truth,  and  perceive  (by  special  revelation) 


c.  5.]  Theurgy — a  degenerate  Mysticism.  47 

rising  from  within,  all  its  green  pastures  and  still  waters, — 
somewhat  as  Pindar  describes  the  sun  beholding  the  Isle  of 
Rhodes  emerging  from  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  new-born,  yet 
perfect,  in  all  the  beauty  of  glade  and  fountain,  of  grassy  upland 
and  silver  tarn,  of  marble  crag  and  overhanging  wood,  spa-rkling 
from  the  brine  as  after  a  summer  shower.  But  alas,  how 
tardily  arises  this  new  world  of  inner  wonders  !  It  must  be  ac- 
celerated—drawn up  by  some  strong  compelling  charm.  The 
doctrine  of  passivity  becomes  impossible  to  some  temperaments 
beyond  a  certain  pass.  The  enjoyments  of  the  vision  or  the 
rapture  are  too  few  and  far  between — could  they  but  be  pro- 
duced at  will !  Whether  the  mystic  seeks  the  triumph  of 
superhuman  knowledge  or  that  intoxication  of  the  feeling  which 
is  to  translate  him  to  the  upper  world,  after  a  while  he  craves  a 
sign.  Theurgy  is  the  art  which  brings  it.  Its  appearance  is 
the  symptom  of  failing  faith,  whether  in  philosophy  or  religion. 
Its  glory  is  the  phosphorescence  of  decay. 

Atherton.  Generally,  I  think  it  is ;  though  it  prevailed  in 
the  age  of  the  Reformation — borrowed,  however,  I  admit,  on 
the  revival  of  letters,  from  an  age  of  decline. 


BOOK    TFIE     SnCOND 


EARLY   ORIENTAL    MYSTICISM 


VOL.  I. 


CHAPTER   1 

From  worldly  cares  liiiubelfe  lie  did  esloyne, 

And  greatly  shunned  manly  exercise  ; 

From  everie  worke  he  chalenged  essoyne, 

For  contemplation  sake  :  yet  otherwise 

His  life  he  led  in  lawlesse  riotise  ; 

By  which  l.e  grew  to  grievous  maladie  : 

For  in  his  lustlesse  limbs  through  evill  guise, 

A  shaking  fever  raignd  continually  ; 

Such  one  was  Idlenesse,  first  of  this  company. 

Spenser. 

TTAVING  free  access  to  the  Commonplace  Book  of  my 
friend  Atherton,  I  now  extract  therefrom  a  few  notes, 
written  after  reading  Wilkins'  translation  of  the  Bagvat-Gita. 
This  episode  in  a  heroic  poem  of  ancient  India  is  considered 
the  best  exponent  of  early  oriental  mysticism.  I  give  these 
remarks  just  as  I  find  them,  brief  and  rough-hewn,  but  not, 
I  think,  hast}-. 

'Observations  on  Indian  mysticism,  h  propos  of  the  Bagvat-Gita. 

This  poem  consists  of  a  dialogue  between  the  god  Crishna 
and  the  hero  Arjoun.  Crishna,  though  wearing  a  human  form, 
speaks  throughout  as  Deity.  Arjoun  is  a  young  chieftain 
whom  he  befriends.  A  great  civil  war  is  raging,  and  the  piece 
opens  on  the  eve  of  battle.  Crishna  is  driving  the  chariot  of 
Arjoun,  and  they  are  between  the  lines  of  the  opposing  armies. 
On  either  side  the  war-shells  are  heard  to  sound — shells  to 
which  the  Indian  warriors  gave  names  as  did  the  paladins  of 
Christendom  to  their  swords.  The  battle  will  presently  join, 
but  Arjoun  appears  listless  and  sad.    He  looks  on  either  army; 

E  2 


5  2  Early  Oriental  Mysticism.  [b.  n. 

in  the  ranks  of  each  he  sees  preceptors  whom  he  has  been  taught 
to  revere,  and  relatives  whom  he  loves.  He  knows  not  for 
which  party  to  desire  a  bloody  victory  :  so  he  lays  his  bow  aside 
and  sits  down  in  the  chariot,  Crishna  remonstrates,  reminds 
him  that  his  hesitation  will  be  attributed  to  cowardice,  and  that 
such  scruples  are,  moreover,  most  unreasonable.  He  should 
learn  to  act  without  any  regard  whatever  to  the  consequences 
of  his  actions.  At  this  point  commence  the  instructions  of  the 
god  concerning  faith  and  practice. 

So  Arjoun  must  learn  to  disregard  the  consequences  of  his 
actions.  I  find  here  not  a  '  holy  indifference,'  as  with  the  French 
Q.uietists,  but  an  indifference  which  is  unholy.  The  sainte 
indifference  of  the  west  essayed  to  rise  above  self,  to  welcome 
happiness  or  misery  alike  as  the  will  of  Supreme  Love.  The 
odious  indifference  of  these  orientals  inculcates  the  supremacy 
of  selfishness  as  the  wisdom  of  a  god.  A  steep  toil,  that  apathy 
towards  ourselves  ;  d^facilis  descensus,  this  apathy  toward  others. 
One  Quietist  will  scarcely  hold  out  his  hand  to  receive  heaven  : 
another  will  not  raise  a  finger  to  succour  his  fellow. 

Mysticism,  then,  is  born  armed  completely  with  its  worst 
extravagances.  An  innocent  childhood  it  never  had;  for  in  its 
very  cradle  this  Hercules  destroys,  as  deadly  serpents,  Reason 
and  Morality.  Crishna,  it  appears,  can  invest  the  actions  ot 
his  favourites  with  such  divineness  that  nothing  they  do  is 
wrong.  For  the  mystical  adept  of  Hindooism  the  distinction 
between  good  and  evil  is  obliterated  as  often  as  he  pleases. 
Beyond  this  point  mysticism  the  most  perverted  cannot  go ; 
since  such  emancipation  from  moral  law  is  in  practice  the  worst 
aim  of  the  worst  men.  '^rhe  mysticism  of  a  man  who  declares 
himself  the  Holy  Ghost  constitutes  a  stage  more  startling  but 
less  guilty ;  for  responsibility  ends  where  insanity  begins. 

The  orientals  know  little  of  a  system  of  forces.  They  carry 
a  single  idea  to  its  consequences.     The  dark  issue  of  the  self- 


c.  I.]  The  Bagvat-Gita.  53 

deifying  tendency  is  exhibited  among  them  on  a  large  scale, — • 
the  degrees  of  the  enormity  are  registered  and  made  portentously 
apparent  as  by  the  movement  of  a  huge  hand  upon  its  dial. 
Western  mysticism,  checked  by  many  better  influences,  has 
rarely  made  so  patent  the  inlierent  evil  even  of  its  most  mis- 
chievous forms.  The  European,  mystic  though  he  be,  wiU 
occasionally  pause  to  qualify,  and  is  often  willing  to  allow  some 
scope  to  facts  and  principles  alien  or  hostile  to  a  favourite  idea. 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  the  doctrine  of  metempsychosis 
is  largely  answerable  for  Crishna's  cold-blooded  maxim.  He 
tells  Arjoun  that  the  soul  puts  on  many  bodies,  as  many 
garments,  remaining  itself  unharmed  :  the  death  of  so  many 
of  his  countrymen — a  mere  transition,  therefore — need  not 
distress  hina. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Quel  diable  de  jargon  entends-je  ici  ?    Voici  bien  du  haut  styk. 

MOLliRE. 

A /T  YSTICISM  has  no  genealogy.  It  is  no  tradition  con- 
veyed  across  frontiers  or  down  the  course  of  generations 
as  a  ready-made  commodity.  It  is  a  state  of  thinking  and 
feeUng,  to  which  minds  of  a  certain  temperament  are  liable  at 
any  time  or  place,  in  Occident  and  orient,  whether  Romanist 
or  Protestant,  Jew,  Turk,  or  Infidel.  It  is  more  or  less  deter- 
mined by  the  positive  religion  with  which  it  is  connected.  But 
though  conditioned  by  circumstance  or  education,  its  appear- 
ance is  ever  the  spontaneous  product  of  a  certain  crisis  in 
individual  or  social  history. 

A  merely  imitative  mysticism,  as  exemplied  by  some  Trac- 
tarian  ecclesiastics,  is  an  artificial  expedient,  welcome  to  ambi- 
tious minds  as  an  engine,  to  the  frivolous  as  a  devotional 
diversion,  to  the  weak  and  servile  as  a  softly-cushioned  yoke. 

Were  mysticism  a  transmitted  principle  we  should  be  able  to 
trace  it  through  successive  translations  to  a  form  which  might 
be  termed  primitive.  We  might  mark  and  throw  off,  as  we 
ascended,  the  accretions  with  which  it  has  been  invested,  till 
we  reached  its  origin — the  simple  idea  of  mysticism,  new-bom. 
The  mysticism  of  India,  the  earliest  we  can  find,  shows  us  that 
nothing  of  this  sort  is  possible.  That  set  of  principles  which 
we  repeatedly  encounter,  variously  combined,  throughout  the 
history  of  mysticism,  exhibits  itself  in  the  Bagvat-Gita  almost 
complete.     The  same  round  of  notions,  occurring  to  minds  of 


c.  2]  Hindoo  Mysticism.  5 5 

similar  make  under  similar  circumstances,  is  common  to  mystics 
in  ancient  India  and  in  modern  Christendom.  The  develoi> 
ment  of  these  fundamental  ideas  is  naturally  more  elevated  and 
benign  under  the  influence  of  Christianity. 

Summarily,  I  would  say,  this  Hindoo  mysticism — 
(i.)  Lays  claim  to  disinterested  love,  as  opposed  to  a  merce- 
nary religion ; 
(2.)  Reacts  against  the  ceremonial  prescription  and  pedantic 

literalism  of  the  Vedas ; 
(3.)  Identifies,  in  its  pantheism,  subject  and  object,  wor- 
shipper and  worshipped ; 
(4.)  Aims  at  ultimate  absorption  in  the  Infinite  ; 
(5.)  Inculcates,  as  the  way  to  this  dissolution,  absolute  pas- 
sivity, withdrawal  into  the  inmost  self,  cessation  of  all 
the  powers, — giving  recipes  for  procuring  this  beatific 
torpor  or  trance ; 
(6.)  Believes  that  eternity  may  thus  be  realized  in  time ; 
(7.)  Has  its  mythical  miraculous  pretentions,  i.e.,  its  theurgic 

department ; 
(8.)  And,  finally,  advises  the  learner  in  this  kind  of  religion 
to  submit  himself  implicitly  to  a  spiritual  guide, — his 
Guru. 
With  regard  to  (i),  it  is  to  be  observed  that  the  disinterest- 
edness of  the  worship  enjoined  by  Crishna  is  by  no  means  abso- 
lute, as  Madame  Guyon  endeavoured  to  render  hers.    The  mere 
ritualist,  buying  prosperity  by  temple-gifts,  will  realise,  says 
Crishna,  only  a  partial  enjoyment  of  heaven.     Arjoun,  too,  is 
encouraged  by  the  prospect  of  a  recompence,  for  he  is  to  aspire 
to  far  higher  things.     '  Men  who  are  endowed  with  true  wisdom 
are  unmindful  of  good  or  evil  in  this  world, — wise  men  who 
have  abandoned  all  thought  of  the  fruit  which  is  produced  from 
their  actions  are  freed  from  the  chains  of  birth,  and  go  to  the 
regions  of  eternal  happiness.' 


5  6  Early  Oriental  Mysticism.  [b.  n. 


In  some  hands  such  doctrine  might  rise  above  the  popular 
morality;  in  most  it  would  be  so  interpreted  as  to  sink  below 
even  that  ignoble  standard, 

(3.)  'God,'  saith  Crishna,  'is  the  gift  of  charity;  God  is  the 
ottering ;  God  is  in  the  fire  of  the  altar ;  by  God  is  the  sacrifice 
performed  ;  and  God  is  to  be  obtained  by  him  who  maketh  God 
alone  the  object  of  his  works.'  Again,  'I  am  moisture  in  the 
water,  light  in  the  sun  and  moon,  .  .  .  human  nature  in  man- 
kind, .  .  .  the  understanding  of  the  wise,  the  glory  of  the  proud, 
the  strength  of  the  strong,'  &c. 

(4.)  This  eternal  absorption  in  Brahm  is  supposed  to  be  in 
some  way  consistent  with  personality,  since  Crishna  promises 
Arjoun  enjoyment.  The  mystic  of  the  Bagvat-Gita  seeks  at  once 
the  highest  aim  of  the  Hindoo  religion,  the  attainment  of  such 
a  state  that  when  he  dies  he  shall  not  be  born  again  into  any 
form  on  earth.      Future  birth  is  the  Hindoo  hell  and  purgatory. 

So  with  Buddhism,  and  its  Nirwana. 

But  the  final  absorption  which  goes  by  the  name  of  Nirwana 
among  the  Buddhists  is  described  in  terms  which  can  only 
mean  annihilation.  According  to  the  Buddhists  all  sentient 
existence  has  within  it  one  spiritual  element,  homogeneous  in 
the  animal  and  the  man, — Thought,  which  is  a  divine  substance. 
This  '  Thought'  exists  in  its  highest  degree  in  man,  the  summit 
of  creation,  and  from  the  best  among  men  it  lapses  directly 
out  of  a  particular  existence  into  the  universal.  Thus  the 
mind  of  man  is  divine,  but  most  divine  when  nearest  nothing. 
Hence  the  monastic  asceticism,  inertia,  trance,  of  this 
kindred  oriental  superstition.  {See  Spence  Hardy's  Eastern 
Mouachism. ) 

(5.)  '  Divine  wisdom  is  said  to  be  confirmed  when  a  man  can 
restrain  his  faculties  from  their  wonted  use,  as  the  tortoise 
draws  in  his  limbs.' 

The  devotees  who  make  it  their  principal  aim  to  realise  the 


c.  2.]  The  Yogis.  57 

emancipation  of  the  spirit  supposed  to  take  place  in  trance,  are 
called  Yogis. 

'  The  Yogi  constantly  exerciseth  the  spirit  in  private.  He  is 
recluse,  of  a  subdued  mind  and  spirit,  free  from  hope  and  free 
from  perception.  He  planteth  his  own  seat  firmly  on  a  spot 
that  is  undefiled,  neither  too  high  nor  too  low,  and  sitteth  upon 
the  sacred  grass  which  is  called  Koos,  covered  with  a  skin  and 
a  cloth.  There  he  whose  business  is  the  restraining  of  his 
passions  should  sit,  with  his  mind  fixed  on  one  object  alone  ; 
in  the  exercise  of  his  devotion  for  the  purification  of  his  soul, 
keeping  his  head,  his  neck,  and  body  steady,  without  motion  ; 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  point  of  his  nose,  looking  at  no  other 
place  around.' 

The  monks  of  Mount  Athos,  whose  mysticism  was  also  of 
this  most  degraded  type,  substituted,  as  a  gazing-point,  the 
navel  for  the  nose. 

Ward,  in  describing  the  Yogi  practice,  tells  us  that  at  the 
latest  stage  the  eyes  also  are  closed,  while  the  fingers  and  even 
bandages  are  employed  to  obstruct  almost  completely  the 
avenues  of  respiration.  Then  the  soul  is  said  to  be  united  to 
the  energy  of  the  body ;  both  mount,  and  are  as  it  were  con- 
centrated in  the  skull ;  Avhence  the  spirit  escapes  by  the 
basilar  suture,  and,  the  body  having  been  thus  aban- 
doned, the  incorporeal  nature  is  reunited  for  a  season  to 
the  Supreme.^ 

*  See  VVilkins'    Bagrat-G/ta,     pp.  who  after  swallowing  the  wafer  con- 

63-65.      IWird,  ii.  180.     Also,  Asiatic  ceives  of  Christ  as  prisoner  in  her  in- 

Rescarclics,  vol.  xvii.  pp.  169-313,  con-  wards,  and,  making  her  heart  a  doU's- 

taining  an  account  of  these  Yogis,  by  house,  calls  it  a  temple.     But  beyond 

Horace  Hayman  Wilson.     One  sect,  her,  and  beyond  the  Indians,   too,  in 

we  are  told,  have  away  of  contempla-  sensuousness,  are  the  Romanist  stories 

ting  Vishnu  in  miniature,  by  imagining  of  those  saints  in  whom  it  is  declared 

the  god  in  their  heart,  about  the  size  that  a  post-mortem  examination    has 

of  an  open  hand,  and  so  adoring  him  disclosed  the  figure  of  Clirist,  or  the 

from  top  to  toe.     In  this  gross  concep-  insignia  of  his   passion,    miraculously 

tion  of  an  indwelling  deity  these  Hin-  modelled  in  the  chambers  of  the  heart, 
doos  do  indeed  e.xceed  St.  Theresa, 


5  8  Early  Oriental  Mysticism.  [b.  n. 

Stupifying  drugs  were  doubtless  employed  to  assist  in  induc- 
ing this  state  of  insensibility. 

Chrishna  teaches  that  '  the  wisely  devout'  walk  in  the  night 
of  time  when  all  things  rest,  and  sleep  in  the  day  of  time 
when  all  things  wake.  In  other  words,  the  escape  from 
sense  is  a  flight  from  illusion  into  the  undeceiving  condition 
of  trance.  So  the  Code  of  Menu  pronounces  the  waking 
state  one  of  deceptive  appearances — a  life  among  mere 
phantasmata ;  that  of  sleep  a  little  nearer  reality ;  while 
that  of  ecstasy,  or  trance,  presents  the  truth — reveals  a 
new  world,  and  enables  the  inner  eye  (which  opens  as 
the  outer  one  is  closed)  to  discern  the  inmost  reality  of 
things. 

These  are  pretensions  which  mysticism  has  often  repeated. 
This  notion  underlies  the  theory  and  practice  of  spiritual  clair- 
voyance, 

(6.)  '  The  learned  behold  him  (Deity)  alike  in  the  reverend 
Brahmin  perfected  in  knowledge ;  in  the  ox  and  in  the 
elephant ;  in  the  dog,  and  in  him  who  eateth  the  flesh  of  dogs. 
Those  whose  minds  are  fixed  on  this  equality  gain  eternity  even 
in  this  world'  (transcend  the  limitation  of  time). 

(7.)  The  following  passage,  given  by  Ward,  exhibits  at  once 
the  nature  of  the  miraculous  powers  ascribed  to  the  highest 
class  of  devotees,  and  the  utter  lawlessness  arrogated  by  these 
'L,3d-intoxicated'  men  : — 

'  He  (the  Yogi)  will  hear  celestial  sounds,  the  songs  and 
conversation  of  celestial  choirs.  He  will  have  the  perception 
of  their  touch  in  their  passage  through  the  air.  He  is  able  to 
trace  the  progress  of  intellect  through  the  senses,  and  the  path 
of  the  animal  spirit  through  the  nerves.  He  is  able  to  enter  a 
dead  or  a  living  body  by  the  path  of  the  senses,  and  in  this 
body  to  act  as  though  it  were  his  own. 

•  He  who  in  the  body  hath  obtained  liberation  is  of  no  caste, 


o.  2.]  Apathy  accounted  Perfection.  59 

of  no  sect,  of  no  order ;  attends  to  no  duties,  adheres  to  no 
shastras,  to  no  formulas,  to  no  works  of  merit ;  he  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  speech ;  he  remains  at  a  distance  from  all  secular 
concerns ;  he  has  renounced  the  love  and  the  knowledge  of 
sensible  objects  ;  he  is  glorious  as  the  autumnal  sky  ;  he  flatters 
none,  he  honours  none  ;  he  is  not  worshipped,  he  worships 
none ;  whether  he  practises  and  follows  the  customs  of  his 
country  or  not,  this  is  his  character.' 

In  the  fourteenth  century,  mystics  were  to  be  found  among 
the  lower  orders,  whose  ignorance  and  sloth  carried  negation 
almost  as  far  as  this.  They  pretended  to  imitate  the  divine 
immutability  by  absolute  inaction.  The  dregs  and  refuse  of 
mysticism  along  the  Rhine  are  equal  in  quality  to  its  most  am- 
bitious produce  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges. 

(8.)  The  Guru  is  paralleled  by  the  Pir  of  the  Sufis,  the  Con- 
fessor of  the  Middle  Age,  and  the  Directeur  of  modern  France. ** 

A  mysticism  which  rests  ultimately  on  the  doctrine  that  the 
human  soul  is  of  one  substance  with  God,  is  fain  to  fall  down 
and  worship  at  the  feet  of  a  man.  Such  directorship  is,  of 
course,  no  essential  part  of  mysticism — is,  in  fact,  an  inconsis- 
tency; but,  though  no  member,  or  genuine  outgrowth,  it  is  an 
entozoon  lamentably  prevalent.  The  mystic,  after  all  his  pains 
to  reduce  himself  to  absolute  passivity,  becomes  not  theo- 
pathetic,  but  anthropopathefic — suffers,  not  under  God,  but  man. 

-  Asiatic  Researches,  loc.  cit.  The  worshipped  principle  of  Hindooism  is 
not  love,  but  power.  Certain  objects  are  adored  as  containing  divine  energy. 
The  Guru  is  a  representative  and  vehicle  of  divine  power — a  Godful  man,  and 
accordingly  the  most  imperious  of  task-masters.  The  prodigies  of  asceticism, 
so  abundant  in  Indian  fable,  had  commonly  for  their  object  the  attainment 
of  superhuman  powers.  Thus  Taraki,  according  to  the  Siva  Puran,  stood  a 
hundred  years  on  tip-toe,  lived  a  hundred  years  on  air,  a  hundred  on  fire,  &c. 
for  this  purpose. — Notes  to  Curse  of  Keliama,  p.  237. 

The  following  passage,  cited  by  Ward,  exhibits  the  subjective  idealism  of 
these  Hindoos  in  its  most  daring  absurdity.  '  Let  every  one  meditate  upon 
himself ;  let  him  be  the  worshipper  and  the  worship.  Whatever  you  see  is 
but  yourself,  and  father  and  mother  are  nonentities  ;  you  are  the  infant  and  the 
old  man,  the  wise  man  and  the  fool,  the  male  and  tlie  female  ;  it  is  you  who  arr. 


6o  Early  Oriental  Mysticism.  [b.  n, 

drowned  in  the  stream — you  who  pass  over  ;  you  are  the  sensualist  and  the 
ascetic,  the  sick  man  and  the  strong  ;  in  short,  whatsoever  you  see,  that  is  you, 
as  bubbles,  surf,  and  billows  are  all  but  water. ' 

Now,  there  is  an  obvious  resemblance  between  this  idealism  and  that  of 
Fichte.  The  Indian  and  the  German  both  ignore  the  notions  formed  from 
mere  sensible  experience  ;  both  dwell  apart  from  experience,  in  a  world  fashioned 
for  themselves  out  of  '  pure  thought  ;'  both  identify  tliought  and  being,  subject 
and  object.  But  here  the  likeness  ends.  The  points  of  contrast  are  obvious. 
The  Hindoo  accepts  as  profoundest  wisdom  what  would  be  an  unfair 
caricature  of  the  system  of  Fichte.  The  idealism  of  the  Oriental  is  dreamy 
and  passive  ;  it  dissolves  his  individuality  ;  it  makes  him  a  particle,  wrought 
now  into  this,  now  into  that,  in  the  ever-shifting  phantasmagoria  of  the  universe  ; 
he  has  been,  he  may  be,  he,  therefore,  in  a  sense  is,  anything  and  everything. 
Fichte's  philosophy,  on  the  contrary,  rests  altogetlier  on  the  intense  activity — 
on  the  autocracy  of  the  Ego,  which  posits,  or  creates,  the  Non-Ego.'  He  says, 
'  The  activity  and  passivity  of  the  Ego  are  one  and  the  same.  For  in  as  far  as 
it  does  not  posit  a  something  in  itself,  it  posits  that  something  in  the  Non-Ego. 
Again,  the  activity  and  passivity  of  the  Non-Ego  are  one  and  the  same.  In  as 
far  as  the  Non-Ego  works  upon  the  Ego,  and  will  absorb  a  something  in 
it,    the  Ego  posits  that  very  thing  in  the  Non-Ego.'    {Grundlage  der  gesanzmten 

Wisscnschaftslchre,  §  3.  Sdmmtliche  Wcrke,  v.  i.  p.  177.)  Action  is  all  in  all 
with  him.  God  he  calls  'a  pure  Action  [reines  Handeln),  the  life  and  prin- 
ciple of  a  supersensuous  order  of  the  world — just  as  I  am  a  pure  Action,  as  a 
link  in  that  order.  (GerichtUche  Vera7itwortu7tg gegeii  die  Anklage  desAthcismus, 

Werke,  v.  p.  26T.)  Charged  with  denying  personality  to  God,  Fichte  replies  that 
he  only  denied  him  that  conditioned  personality  which  belongs  to  ourselves — 
a  denial,  I  suppose,  in  which  we  should  all  agree.  The  only  God  in  his  system 
which  is  not  an  uninfluential  abstraction  is  manifestly  the  Ego — that  is  dilated  to 
a  cobssal  height,  and  deified.  Pre-eminently  anti-mystical  as  was  the  natural 
temperament  of  Fichte,  here  he  opens  a  door  to  the  characteristic  misconcep- 
tion of  mysticism — the  investiture  of  our  own  notions  and  our  own  will  with  a 
divine  authority  or  glory.  He  would  say,  '  The  man  of  genius  does  think  divine 
thoughts.  But  the  man  who  is  unintelligible,  who,  in  the  very  same  province 
of  pure  thought  as  that  occupied  by  the  true  philosopher,  thinks  only  at  random 
and  incoherently  ;  he  is  mistaken,  I  grant,  in  arrogating  inspiration — him  I  call 
a  mystic'  But  of  unintelligibility  or  incoherence  what  is  to  be  the  test, — who 
is  to  be  the  judge?  In  this  anarchy  of  gods,  numerous  as  thinkere,  one 
deity  must  have  as  much  divine  right  as  another.  There  can  be  no  appeal  to 
experience,  which  all  confessedly  abandon  ;  no  appeal  to  facts,  which  each  Ego 
creates  after  its  own  fashion  for  itself. 


BOOK    THE    THIRD 


THE  MYSTICISM  OF  THE  NEO-PLATONISTS 


CHAPTER  1. 

a  man  is  not  as  God, 

But  then  most  godlike  being  most  a  man. 

Tennyson. 

IV^ATE.  What  a  formidable  bundle  of  papers,  Henry. 

Atherton.  Don't    be    alarmed,    I    shall   not   read  all 
this  to  you  J  only  three  Neo-Platonist  letters  I  have  discovered. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  We  were  talking  just  before  you  came 
in,  Mr.  Willoughby,  about  Mr.  Crossley's  sermon  yesterday 
morning. 

Willoughby.  Ah,  the  Tabernacle  in  the  Wilderness ;  did 
you  not  think  his  remarks  on  the  use  and  abuse  of  symbolism 
in  general  very  good  ?  Brief,  too,  and  suggestive ;  just  what 
such  portions  of  a  sermon  should  be. 

Atherton.  He  overtook  me  on  my  walk  this  morning,  and 
I  alluded  to  the  subject.  He  said  he  had  been  dipping  into 
Philo  last  week,  and  that  suggested  his  topic.  I  told  him  I 
had  paid  that  respectable  old  gentleman  a  visit  or  two  lately, 
and  we  amused  ourselves  with  some  of  his  fancies.  Think  of 
the  seven  branches  of  the  candlestick  being  the  seven  planets 
— the  four  colours  employed,  the  four  elements — the  forecourt 
symboHzing  the  visible,  the  two  sanctuaries  the  ideal  world — ■ 
and  so  on. 

GowER.  At  this  rate  the  furniture  in  one  of  Hoffmann's  tales 
cannot  be  more  alive  with  spirit  than  Philo's  temple  apparatus. 
An  ingenious  trifler,  was  he  not  ? 

Atherton.  Something  better,  I  should  say. 


64  The  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platonists.  [b.  m. 

GowER.  Not,  surely,  when  his  great  characteristic  is  an 
unsurpassed  facility  for  allegorical  interpretation.  Is  not  mys- 
tical exegesis  an  invariable  symptom  of  religious  dilettantism  ? 

Atherton.  With  the  successors  and  imitators — yes  ;  not 
with  the  more  earnest  originals, — such  names  as  Plnlo,  Origen, 
Swedenborg. 

GowER.  But,  at  any  rate,  if  this  spiritualizing  mania  be  Philo's 
great  claim  to  distinction,  head  a  list  of  mystical  commentators 
with  him,  and  pass  on  to  some  one  better. 

Atherton.  He  need  not  detain  us  long.  For  our  enquiry 
he  has  importance  chietly  as  in  a  sort  the  intellectual  father  of 
Neo-PIatonism — the  first  meeting-place  of  the  waters  of  the 
eastern  and  the  western  theosophies.  This  is  his  great  object — to 
combine  the  authoritative  monotheism  of  his  Hebrew  Scriptures 
with  the  speculation  of  Plato. 

Gower.  Absurd  attempt ! — to  interpret  the  full,  clear  utter- 
ance of  Moses,  who  has  found,  by  the  hesitant  and  conflicting 
conjectures  of  Plato,  who  merely  seeks. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  a  very  natural  mistake  for  a  Jew  at 
Alexandria,  reared  in  Greek  culture,  fascinated  by  the  dazzling 
abstractions  of  Greek  philosophy.  He  belonged  less  to  Jeru- 
salem, after  all,  than  to  Athens. 

Atherton.  There  lies  the  secret.  Philo  was  proud  of  his 
saintly  ancestry,  yet  to  his  eye  the  virtues  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment worthy  wore  a  rude  and  homely  air  beside  the  refinement 
of  the  Grecian  sage.  The  good  man  of  Moses  and  the  philo- 
sopher of  Philo  represent  two  very  difterent  ideals.  With  the 
former  the  moral,  with  the  latter  the  merely  intellectual,  pre- 
dominates. So  the  Hebrew  faith  takes  with  Philo  the  exclusive 
Gentile  type, — despises  the  body,  is  horrified  by  matter,  tends 
to  substitute  abstraction  for  personality,  turns  away,  I  fear,  from 
the  publican  and  the  sinner. 

GowER.  So,  then,  Platonism  in  Philo  does  for  Judaism  what 


c.  1.]  Philo  on  the  Contemplative  Life. 

it  was  soon  to  do  for  Christianity, — substitutes  an  ultra-human 
standard — an  ascetic,  unnatural,  passively-gazing  contemplation 
— an  ambitious,  would-be-disembodied  intellectualism,  for  the 
all-embracing  activities  of  common  Christian  life,  so  lowly,  yet 
so  great. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  Alexandrian  Platonism  was  the  gainer  by 
Philo's  accommodation.  Judaism  enfeebled  could  yet  impart 
strength  to  heathendom.  The  infusion  enabled  the  Neo-Plato- 
nists  to  walk  with  a  firmer  step  in  the  religious  province  ;  their 
philosophy  assumed  an  aspect  more  decisively  devout.  Nume- 
nius  learns  of  Philo,  and  Plotinus  of  Numenius,  and  the  ecstasy 
of  Plotinus  is  the  development  of  Philo's  intuition. 

GowER.  Let  me  sum  up  ;  and  forgive  an  antithesis.  Philo's 
great  mistake  lay  in  supposing  that  the  religion  of  philosophy 
was  necessarily  the  philosophy  of  religion.  But  we  have  forgotten 
your  letter,  Atherton. 

Atherton.  Here  is  the  precious  document — a  letter  written 
by  Philo  from  Alexandria,  evidently  just  after  his  journey  to 
Rome.     [Reads.) 

Phii.o  to  Heph-'estion. 

I  am  beginning  to  recover  myself,  after  all  the  anxiety  and 
peril  of  our  embassy  to  Caligula.  Nothing  shall  tempt  me  to 
visit  Rome  again  so  long  as  this  Emperor  lives.  Our  divine 
Plato  is  doubly  dear  after  so  long  an  absence.  Only  an  im- 
perative sense  "of  duty  to  my  countrymen  could  again  induce 
me  to  take  so  prominent  a  part  in  their  public  affairs.  Except 
when  our  religion  or  our  trade  is  concerned,  the  government 
has  always  found  us  more  docile  than  either  the  Greeks  or  the 
Egyptians,  and  we  enjoy  accordingly  large  privileges.  Yet 
when  I  saw  the  ill  turn  our  cause  took  at  Rome,  I  could  not 
but  sigh  for  another  Julius  Csesar. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  you  saying  that  you  are  not  likely  to  visit 

VOL.  I.  F 


66  The  Mysticism  of  tJic  Nco-Platonists.  [k.  m. 

Alexandria  again.  This  restless,  wicked  city  can  present  but 
few  attractions,  I  grant,  to  a  lover  of  philosophic  quiet.  But  I 
cannot  commend  the  extreme  to  which  I  see  so  many  hasten- 
ing. A  passion  for  ascetic  seclusion  is  becoming  daily  more 
prevalent  among  the  devout  and  the  thoughtful,  whether  Jew 
or  Gentile.  Yet  surely  the  attempt  to  combine  contemplation 
and  action  should  not  be  so  soon  abandoned.  A  man  ought 
at  least  to  have  evinced  some  competency  for  the  discharge  of 
the  social  duties  before  he  abandons  them  for  the  divine.  First 
the  less,  then  the  greater. 

I  have  tried  the  life  of  the  recluse.  Solitude  brings  no  escape 
from  spiritual  danger.  If  it  closes  some  avenues  of  temptation, 
there  are  few  in  whose  case  it  does  not  open  more.  Yet  the 
Therapeutge,  a  sect  similar  to  the  Essenes,  with  whom  you  are 
acquainted,  number  many  among  them  whose  lives  are  truly 
exemplary.  Their  cells  are  scattered  about  the  region  border- 
ing on  the  farther  shore  of  the  Lake  Mareotis.  The  members 
of  either  sex  live  a  single  and  ascetic  life,  spending  their  time 
in  fasting  and  contemplation,  in  prayer  or  reading.  They  be- 
lieve themselves  favoured  with  divine  illumination — an  inner 
light.  They  assemble  on  the  Sabbath  for  worship,  and  listen 
to  mystical  discourses  on  the  traditionary  lore  which  they  say 
has  been  handed  down  in  secret  among  themselves.  They 
also  celebrate  solemn  dances  and  processions,  of  a  mystic  signi- 
ficance, by  moonlight  on  the  shore  of  the  great  mere.  Some- 
times, on  an  occasion  of  public  rejoicing,  the  margin  of  the 
lake  on  our  side  will  be  lit  with  a  fiery  chain  of  illuminations, 
and  galleys,  hung  with  lights,  row  to  and  fro  with  strains  of 
music  sounding  over  the  broad  water.  Then  the  Therapeutoe 
are  all  hidden  in  their  little  hermitages,  and  these  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  world  they  have  abandoned,  make  them  with- 
draw into  themselves  and  pray. 

Tlieir  principle  at  least  is  true.     The  soul  which  is  occupied 


c.  I.}  Body  versus  Soul.  6y 

with  things  above,  and  is  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the 
Lord,  cannot  but  account  the  body  evil,  and  even  hostile.  The 
soul  of  man  is  divine,  and  his  highest  wisdom  is  to  become  as 
much  as  possible  a  stranger  to  the  body  with  its  embarrassing 
appetites.  Ciod  has  breathed  into  man  from  heaven  a  portion 
of  his  own  divinity.  That  which  is  divine  is  invisible.  It  may 
be  extended,  but  it  is  incapable  of  separation.  Consider  how 
vast  is  the  range  of  our  thought  over  the  past  and  the  future, 
the  heavens  and  the  earth.  Tiiis  alliance  with  an  upper  world, 
of  which  we  are  conscious,  would  be  impossible,  were  not  the 
soul  of  man  an  indivisible  portion  of  that  divine  and  blessed 
Spirit  (ft  fill  rriQ  tieUiQ  Kcu  el2aij.Hn'oc  y^vyj]^  tKeirr]Q  an  6  an  a  a  fid 
iir  ov  ciati)Er6i').  Contemplation  of  the  Divine  Essence  is  the 
noblest  exercise  of  man ;  it  is  the  only  means  of  attaining  to 
the  highest  truth  and  virtue,  and  therein  to  behold  God  is  the 
consummation  of  our  happiness  here. 

The  confusion  of  tongues  at  the  Ijuilding  of  the  tower  of 
Babel  should  teach  us  this  lesson.  The  heaven  those  vain 
builders  sought  to  reach,  signifies  symbolically  the  mind,  where 
dwell  divine  powers.  Their  futile  attempt  represents  the 
presumption  of  those  who  place  sense  above  intelligence — who 
think  that  they  can  storm  the  Intelligible  by  the  Sensible.  'J'he 
structure  which  such  impiety  would  raise  is  overthrown  by 
spiritual  tranquillity.  In  calm  retirement  and  contemplation 
we  are  taught  that  we  know  like  only  by  like,  and  that  the 
foreign  and  lower  world  of  the  sensuous  and  the  practical  may 
not  intrude  into  the  lofty  region  of  divine  illumination. 

I  have  written  a  small  treatise  on  the  Contemplative  Life, 
giving  an  account  of  the  Therapeutiie.  If  you  will  neither  visit 
me  nor  them,  I  will  have  a  copy  of  it  made,  and  send  you.' 
Farewell. 

'  Philo    gives    an    account   of  the  P.assages  corresponding  witli  those 

Tlierapout.T  referred  to  in  the  letter,  contained  in  tlie  letter  con!ril)ute(l  by 
in  his  treatise  De  Vita  Contcmplativa.      .'\therton,    concorniny   the    enmity   of 

F  2 


6S  The  Mysticism  of  the  Nco-Phitonists.         \&.  m. 


GowER.  How  mistaken  is  Philo  in  maintaining  that  the 
senses  cannot  aid  us  in  our  ascent  towards  the  supersensuous ; 
• — as  though  the  mahreatment  of  the  body,  the  vassal,  by  the  soul, 
the  suzerain,  were  at  once  the  means  and  the  proof  of  mastery 
over  it.  Duly  care  for  the  body,  and  the  thankful  creature 
will  not  forget  its  place,  and  when  you  wish  to  meditate,  will 
disturb  you  by  no  obtrusive  hint  of  its  presence.  I  find  that  I 
can  rise  above  it  only  by  attention  to  its  just  claims.  If  I  violate 
its  rights  I  am  sued  by  it  in  the  high  court  of  nature,  and  cast 
with  costs. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  And  certainly  our  most  favoured  moments 
of  ascent  into  the  ideal  world  have  their  origin  usually  in  some 
suggestion  that  has  reached  us  through  the  senses.  I  remember 
a  little  song  of  Uhland's  called  The  Passing  Minstrel — a  brief 
parable  of  melody,  like  so  many  of  his  pieces, — which,  as  I 
understood  it,  was  designed  to  illustrate  this  very  truth.  The 
l)oet  falls  asleep  on  a  '  hill  of  blossoms'  near  the  road,  and  his 
soul  flutters  away  in  dream  to  the  golden  land  of  Fable.  He 
wakes,  as  one  fallen  from  the  clouds,  and  sees  the  minstrel  with 
his  harp,  who  has  just  passed  by,  and  playing  as  he  goes,  is  lost 
to  sight  among  the  trees.  '  Was  it  he,'  the  poet  asks,  '  that  sang 
into  my  soul  those  dreams  of  wonder  ?'  Another  might  inform 
the  fancy  with  another  meaning,  according  to  the  mood  of  the 
hour.  It  appeared  to  me  an  emblem  of  the  way  in  which  we 
are  often  indebted  to  a  sunset  or  a  landscape,  to  a  strain  of  music 
or  a  suddenly-remembered  verse,  for  a  voyage  into  a  world  of 

the  flesh  and  the  divine  mture  of  the  illustrates   the  same   principle,    Sucr. 

soul,  are  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  Leg.   AUeg.   lib.  i.   p.  54  ;  so  of  Gen. 

Philo,  Sao:  Leg.  AUeg.  lib.  iii.  p.  loi  x.x.wii.  12  ;  De  eo  quod  pot.  p.  192. 
(ed.   Mangey)  ;   hb.   ii.    p.  64  ;  De    eo  Eusebius  shows  us  how  Eleazar  and 

(/uod    del.    potiori   insid.    soleat,    pp.  Anstobulus   must   have   prepared  the 

192,  208  way  for  I'hilo  in  this  attempt  to  har- 

Philo's  interpretation  of  the  scrip-  monize  Judaism  witii  the  letters  and 

tural  account  concerning  Piabel  is  con-  philosoiihy  of  Greece.     Prap.  Evatig. 

tained  in  the  De  Confiis.  Linguanan,  lib.  viii.  9,  10. 
p.  424.     His  exposition  of  Gen.  i.  9, 


c.  I.]  Body  versus  Soul,  69 

vision  of  our  own,  where  we  cease  altogether  to  be  aware  of  the 
external  cause  which  first  transported  us  tliither. 

Atherton.  That  must  always  be  true  of  imagination.  Rut 
Platonism  discards  the  visible  instead  of  mounting  by  it.  Con- 
sidered morally,  too,  this  asceticism  sins  so  grievously.  It 
misuses  the  iron  of  the  will,  given  us  to  forge  implements  withal 
for  life's  husbandry,  to  fashion  of  it  a  bolt  for  a  voluntary 
prison.  At  Alexandria,  doubtless.  Sin  was  imperious  in  her 
shamelessness,  at  the  theatre  and  at  the  mart,  in  the  hall  of 
judgment  and  in  the  house  of  feasting,  but  there  was  suffering 
as  well  as  sin  among  the  crowds  of  that  great  city,  with  all 
their  ignorance  and  care  and  want,  and  to  have  done  a  some- 
thing to  lessen  tlie  suffering  would  have  prepared  the  way  for 
lessening  the  sin. 


CHAPTER  rr. 

T-n  pliilosfjphie  ii'est  jjas  philosophie  si  t-Ile  ne  toucliL' ;\  I'abinie  ;  mnis  elle 
ccsse  d'etre  plulosophie  si  elle  y  tombe. — Cousin. 

/'^C)\VKR.  I  hope  you  are  ready,  xAtherton,  to  illumine  ray 
darkness  concerning    Neo-Platonisni,   by  taking  up  that 
individual   instance  you  were  speaking   of  last  Monday. 

Atherton.  I  have  something  ready  to  inflict;  so  prepare  to 
listen  stoutly.     {Reads.) 

Plato  pronounces  Love  the  ciuld  of  Poverty  and  Plenty-^ 
the  Alexandrian  philosophy  was  the  oftspring  of  Reverence  and 
Ambition.  It  combined  an  adoring  homage  to  the  departed 
genius  of  the  age  of  Pericles  with  a  passionate,  credulous 
craving  after  a  supernatural  elevation.  Its  literary  tastes  and 
religious  wants  were  alike  imperative  and  irreconcilable.  In 
obedience  to  the  former,  it  disdained  Christianity  ;  impelled  by 
the  latter,  it  travestied  Plato.  But  for  that  proud  servility 
which  fettered  it  to  a  glorious  past,  it  might  have  recognised  in 
Christianity  the  only  satisfaction  of  its  higher  longings.  Re- 
jecting that,  it  could  only  establish  a  philosophic  church  on 
the  foundation  of  Plato's  school,  and,  forsaking  while  it  pro- 
fessed to  expound  him,  embrace  the  hallucinations  of  intuition 
and  of  ecstasy,  till  it  finally  vanishes  at  Athens  amid  the  incense 
and  the  hocus-pocus  of  theurgic  incantation.  As  it  degenerates, 
it  presses  more  audaciously  forward  through  the  veil  of  the  un- 
seen. It  must  see  visions,  dream  dreams,  work  spells,  and  call 
down  deities,   demi-gods,  and  daemons  from  their  dwellings  in 


c.  2.]  Fitsioii  of  Rc/igions.  7 1 

the  upper  air.  The  Alexandrians  were  eclectics,  because  such 
reverence  taught  them  to  look  back  ;  mystics,  because  such 
ambition  urged  them  to  look  up.  They  restore  philosophy, 
after  all  its  weary  wanderings,  to  the  place  of  its  birth  ;  and,  in 
its  second  childhood,  it  is  cradled  in  the  arms  of  those  old 
poetic  faiths  of  the  past,  from  which,  in  the  pride  of  its  youth, 
it  broke  away. 

The  mental  history  of  the  founder  best  illustrates  the  origin 
of  the  school.  Plotinus,  in  a.d.  233,  commences  the  study  of 
philosophy  in  Alexandria,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight.  His 
mental  powers  are  of  the  concentrative  rather  than  the  compre- 
hensive order.  Impatient  of  negation,  he  has  commenced  an 
earnest  search  after  some  truth  which,  however  abstract,  shall 
yet  be  positive.  He  pores  over  the  Dialogues  of  Plato  and  the 
Metaphysics  of  Aristotle,  day  and  night.  To  promote  the 
growth  of  his  '  soul-wings,'  as  Plato  counsels,  he  practises 
austerities  his  master  would  never  have  sanctioned.  He 
attempts  to  live  what  he  learns  to  call  the  '  angelic  life  3'  the 
'life  of  the  disembodied  in  the  body.'  He  reads  with  admira- 
tion the  life  of  Apollonius  of  Tyana,  by  Philostratus,  which  has 
recently  appeared.  He  can  probably  credit  most  of  the  marvels 
recorded  of  that  strange  thaumaturgist,  who,  two  hundred 
years  ago,  had  appeared— a  revived  Pythagoras,  to  dazzle 
nation  after  nation  through  -which  he  passed,  with  prophecy 
and  miracle ;  who  had  travelled  to  the  Indus  and  the  Ganges, 
and  brought  back  the  supernatural  powers  of  Magi  and  Gymno- 
sophists,  and  who  was  said  to  have  displayed  to  the  world 
once  more  the  various  knowledge,  the  majestic  sanctity,  and 
the  superhuman  attributes,  of  the  sage  of  Crotona.  This  por- 
traiture of  a  philosophical  hierophant — a  union  of  the  philoso- 
pher and  the  priest  in  an  inspired  hero,  fires  the  imagination 
of  PIc-inus.  In  the  New-Pythagoreanism  of  which  Apollo- 
nius was  a   representative,  Orientalism  and    Platonism   were 


7  2  Tlie  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platonisis.         [d.  m. 

alike  embiaced.*  Perhaps  the  thought  occurs  thus  early  to 
Plotinus — could  I  travel  eastward  I  might  drink  myself  at 
those  fountain-heads  of  tradition  whence  Pythagoras  and  Plato 
drew  so  much  of  their  wisdom.  Certain  it  is,  that,  with  this 
purpose,  he  accompanied,  several  years  subsequently,  the  dis- 
astrous expedition  of  Gordian  against  the  Parthians,  and  narrowly 
escaped  with  life. 

At  Alexandria,  Plotinus  doubtless  hears  from  orientals  there 
some  fragments  of  the  ancient  eastern  theosophy — doctrines 
concerning  the  principle  of  evil,  the  gradual  development  of  the 
Divine  Essence,  and  creation  by  intermediate  agencies,  none  of 
which  he  finds  in  his  Plato.  He  cannot  be  altogether  a 
stranger  to  the  lofty  theism  which  Philo  marred,  while  he 
attempted  to  retine,  by  the  help  of  his  'Attic  Moses.'  He 
observes  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  philosophy  to  fall  back  upon 
the  sanctions  of  religion,  and  on  the  part  of  the  religions  of  the 
day  to  mingle  in  a  Deism  or  a  Pantheism  which  might  claim 
the  sanctions  of  philosophy.  The  signs  of  a  growing  toleration 
or  indifferentism  meet  him  on  every  side.  Rome  has  long 
been  a  Pantheon  for  all  nations,  and  gods  and  provinces  to- 
gether have  found  in  the  capilol  at  once  their  Olympus  and 
their  metropolis.  He  cannot  walk  the  streets  of  Alexandria 
Avithout  perceiving  that  the  very  architecture  tells  of  an  alliance 
between  the  religious  art  of  Egypt  and  of  Greece.  All,  except 
Jews  and  Christians,  join  in  the  worship  of  Serapis.*     Was  not 

'  The  testimony  of  Cicero  and  Tam-  Pythagoreans    were,    many   of  them, 

blichus  may  be  received  as  indicating  incorporated    in    the   Orphic   associa- 

truly  the  similarity  of  spirit  between  tions,  and  their  descendants  were  those 

Pythagoras  and  Plato, — their  common  itinerant  vendors  of  expiations  and  of 

endeavour  to  escape  the  sensuous,  and  charms — the  ayvprat   of  whom    Plato 

to  realize  in  contemplative  abstraction  speaks  [Repiib.  ii.  p.  70) — the  Grecian 

that  tranquillity,  superior  to  desire  and  prototypes    of    Chaucer's    Paidonere. 

passion,    which    assimilated    men    to  Similarly,  in  the  days  of  lamblichus, 

gods.     The    principles    of   both    de-  the  charlatans  glorified  themselves  as 

generated,  in  the  hands  of  their  latest  the  offspring  of  Plato, 

followers,    into     the    mysteries   of    a  -  Clement  of  Alexandria  gives  a  full 

theurgic  Ireemasoiiry.     The  scattered  account  of  the  various  stories  respect- 


c.  2-1  Fusion  of  Religious.  y  3 

the  very  substance  of  which  the  statue  of  that  god  was  made, 
an  amalgam? — fit  symbol  of  the  syncretism  which  paid  him 
homage.  Once  Serapis  had  guarded  the  shores  of  the  Euxinc, 
now  he  is  the  patron  of  Alexandria,  and  in  him  the  attributes 
of  Zeus  and  of  Osiris,  of  Apis  and  of  Pluto,  are  adored  alike  by 
East  and  West.  Men  are  learning  to  overlook  the  external 
differences  of  name  and  ritual,  and  to  reduce  all  religions  to  one 
general  sentiment  of  worship.  For  now  more  than  fifty  years, 
every  educated  man  has  laughed,  with  Lucian's  satire  in  his 
hand,  at  the  gods  of  the  popular  superstition.  A  century 
before  Lucian,  Plutarch  had  shown  that  some  of  the  doctrines 
of  the  barbarians  were  not  irreconcilable  with  the  philosophy  in 
which  he  gloried  as  a  Cireek.  Plutarch  had  been  followed  by 
Apuleius,  a  practical  eclectic,  a  learner  in  every  school,  an 
initiate  in  every  temple,  at  once  sceptical  and  credulous,  a 
sophist  and  a  devotee. 

Plotinus  looks  around  him,  and  inquires  what  philosophy  is 
doing  in  the  midst  of  influences  such  as  these.  Peripateticism 
exists  but  in  slumber  under  the  dry  scholarship  of  Adrastus  and 
Alexander  of  Aphrodisium,  the  commentators  of  the  last 
century.^  The  New  Academy  and  the  Stoics  attract  youth  still, 
but  they  are  neither  of  them  a  philosophy  so  much  as  a  system 
of  ethics.  Speculation  has  given  place  to  morals.  Philosophy 
is  taken  up  as  a  brancli  of  literature,  as  an  elegant  recreation, 
as  a  theme  for  oratorical  display.     Plotinus  is  persuaded  that 

ing  this  idol,  Pivtrcpf.  c.  iv.  p.  42  (ed.  possessed   a   mysterious   influence  at- 

Fotter)  ;  moreover  an  etymology  and  trading   the    Power  in   question,  and 

legend  to  match,  Strom,  lib.  i   p.  383.  inducing  him  to  take  up  iiis   residence 

Certain   sorts   of   wood   and  metal  within    the    image.      lamblichus    lays 

were  supposed  peculiarly  appropriate  down   this  principle   of    symixilhy  in 

to    certain    deiiics.      The   art   of   the  the  treatise  De  Mystcriis,  v.  23,  p.  139 

theurgist  consisted  partly  in  ascertain-  (ed.  Ciale,  1678).     Kircher  furnishes  a 

ing   the   virtues   of  such   substances  ;  description  of  this  statue  of  Serapis, 

and  it  was  supposed  tliat  statues  con-  Q\dip.  ALs^ypt.  i.  139. 

structed  of  a  particular  combination  of  •*  ^se.  Histo/re  de  I' F.cole  d' Alcxan- 

materials,  correspondent  with  the  tastes  drie,  par  M.  Jules  Simon,  toni.  i.  p.  99. 
and  attributes  of  the  deity  represented. 


74  ^Z^"^'  Mysticism  of  the  Nco-Platonists.         [u.  m. 

philosophy  should  be  worship — speculation,  a  search  after  God 
— no  amusement,  but  a  prayer.  Scepticism  is  strong  in  pro- 
portion to  the  defect  or  weakness  of  everything  positive  around 
it.  The  influence  of  yEnesidemus,  who,  two  centuries  ago, 
proclaimed  universal  doubt,  is  still  felt  in  Alexandria.  But  his 
scepticism  would  break  up  the  foundations  of  morality.  What 
is  to  be  done  ?  Plotinus  sees  those  who  are  true  to  speculation 
surrendering  ethics,  and  those  who  hold  to  morality  abandoning 
speculation. 

In  his  perplexity,  a  friend  takes  him  to  hear  Ammonius 
vSaccas.  He  finds  him  a  powerful,  broad-shouldered  man,  as  he 
might  naturally  be  who  not  long  before  was  to  be  seen  any  day 
in  the  sultry  streets  of  Alexandria,  a  porter,  wiping  his  brow 
under  his  burden.  Ammonius  is  speaking  of  the  reconciliation 
that  might  be  effected  between  Plato  and  Aristotle.  This 
eclecticism  it  is  which  has  given  him  fame.  At  another  time 
it  might  have  brought  on  him  only  derision ;  now  there  is  an 
age  ready  to  give  the  attempt  an  enthusiastic  welcome. 

'  What,'  he  cries,  kindling  with  his  theme,  '  did  Plato  leave 
behind  him,  what  Aristotle,  when  Greece  and  philosophy  had 
waned  together  ?  The  first,  a  chattering  crew  of  sophists  :  the 
second,  the  lifeless  dogmatism  of  the  sensationalist.  The  self- 
styled  followers  of  Plato  were  not  brave  enough  either  to  believe 
or  to  deny.  The  successors  of  the  Stagyrite  did  little  more 
than  reiterate  their  denial  of  the  Platonic  doctrine  of  ideas. 
Between  them  morality  was  sinking  fast.  Then  an  effort  was 
made  for  its  revival.  The  attempt  at  least  was  good.  It  sprang 
out  of  a  just  sense  of  a  deep  defect.  Without  morality,  what 
is  philosophy  worth  ?  But  these  ethics  must  rest  on  speculation 
for  their  basis.  The  Epicureans  and  the  Stoics,  I  say,  came 
forward  to  supply  that  moral  w^ant.  Each  said,  we  will  be 
practical,  intelligible,  utilitarian.  One  school,  with  its  hard 
lesson  of  fate  and  self-denial ;  the  other,  with  its  easier  doctrine 


<.■  2.]         Eclccticisni  essays  to  revive  Philosopliy.  75 

of  pleasure,  more  or  less  refined,  were  rivals  in  their  profession 
of  ability  to  teach  men  how  to  live.  In  each  there  was  a  certain 
truth,  but  I  will  honour  neither  with  the  name  of  a  philo- 
sophy. They  have  confined  themselves  to  mere  ethical  applica- 
tion— they  are  willing,  both  of  them,  to  let  first  principles  lie 
unstirred.  Can  scepticism  fail  to  take  advantage  of  this? 
While  they  wrangle,  both  are  disbelieved.  But,  sirs,  can  we 
abide  in  scepticism  ? — it  is  death.  You  ask  me  what  I  recom- 
mend ?  I  say,  travel  back  across  the  past.  Out  of  the  whole 
of  that  by-gone  and  yet  undying  world  of  thought,  construct  a 
system  greater  than  any  of  the  sundered  parts.  Repudiate 
these  partial  scholars  in  the  name  of  their  masters.  Leave  them 
to  their  disputes,  pass  over  their  systems,  already  tottering  for 
lack  of  a  foundation,  and  be  it  yours  to  show  how  their  teachers 
join  hands  far  above  them.  In  such  a  spirit  of  reverent  enthu- 
siasm you  may  attain  a  higher  unity,  you  mount  in  speculation, 
and  from  that  height  ordain  all  noble  actions  for  your  lower 
life.  So  you  become  untrue  neither  to  experience  nor  to  reason, 
and  the  genius  of  eclecticism  will  combine,  yea,  shall  I  say  it, 
will  surpass  while  it  embraces,  all  the  ancient  triumphs  of 
philosophy  !'* 

Such  was  the  teaching  which  attracted  Longlnus,  Herennius, 
and  Origen  (not  the  Father).  It  makes  an  epoch  in  the  life  of 
Plotinus.  He  desires  now  no  other  instructor,  and  is  preparing 
to  become  himself  a  leader  in  the  pathway  Ammonius  has 
pointed  out.  He  is  convinced  that  Platonism,  exalted  into  an 
enthusiastic  illuminism,  and  gathering  about  itself  all  the  scat- 
tered truth  upon  the  field  of  history, — Platonism,  mystical  and 
catholic,  can  alone  preserve  men  from  the  abyss  of  scepticism. 
One  of  the  old  traditions  of  Finland  relates  how  a  mother  once 
found  her  son  torn  into  a  thousand  fragments  at  the  bottom  of 
the  River  of  Death.     She  gathered  the  scattered  members  to 

■•  .See  Note,  p.  82. 


76  The  Mysticism  of  tJie  Neo-Platoiiists.         [b.  m. 

her  bosom,  and  rocking  to  and  fro,  sang  a  magic  song,  which 
made  him  whole  again,  and  restored  the  departed  Ufe.  Such  a 
spell  the  Alexandrian  philosophy  sought  to  work — thus  to 
recover  and  le-unite  the  relics  of  antique  truth,  dispersed  and 
drowned  by  time. 

Plotinus  occupied  himself  only  with  the  most  abstract  ques- 
tions concerning  knowledge  and  being.  Detail  and  method — 
all  the  stitching  and  clipping  of  eclecticism,  he  bequeathed  as 
the  handicraft  of  his  successors.  His  fundamental  principle  is 
the  old /^/'///(?//7>/t//^// of  idealism.  Truth,  according  to  him, 
is  not  the  agreement  of  our  apprehension  of  an  external  object 
with  the  object  itself — it  is  rather  the  agreement  of  the  mind 
with  itself  The  objects  we  contemplate  and  that  which  con- 
templates, are  identical  for  tlie  philosopher.  Both  are  thought ; 
only  like  can  know  like ;  all  truth  is  within  us.  By  reducing 
the  soul  to  its  most  abstract  simplicity,  we  subtilise  it  so  that 
it  expands  into  the  infinite.  In  such  a  state  we  transcend  our 
finite  selves,  and  are  one  with  the  infinite  ;  this  is  the  privileged 
condition  of  ecstasy.  These  blissful  intervals,  but  too  evanescent 
and  too  rare,  were  regarded  as  the  reward  of  philosophic  asceti- 
cism— the  seasons  of  refreshing,  which  were  to  make  amends  for 
all  the  stoical  austerities  of  the  steep  ascent  towards  the  abstrac- 
tion of  the  primal  unity. 

Thus  the  Neo-Platonists  became  ascetics  and  enthusiasts  : 
Plato  was  neither.  Where  Plato  acknowledges  the  services  of 
the  earliest  philosophers — the  imperfect  utterances  of  the  world's 
first  thoughts, — Neo-Platonism  (in  its  later  period,  at  least) 
undertakes  to  detect,  not  the  similarity  merely,  but  the  identity 
between  Pythagoras  and  Plato,  and  even  to  exhibit  the  Plato- 
nism  of  Orpheus  and  of  Hermes.  Where  Plato  is  hesitant  or 
obscure,  Neo-Platonism  inserts  a  meaning  of  its  own,  and  is 
confident  that  such,  and  no  other,  was  the  master's  mind. 
Where  Plato  in  lulges  in  a  fancy,  or  hazards  a  bold  assertion, 


c.  2]  Eclecticism  essays  to  revive  Philosophy.  yj 

Neo-Platonism,  ignoring  the  doubts  Plato  may  himself  express 
elsewhere,  spins  it  out  into  a  theory,  or  bows  to  it  as  an  infol- 
lible  revelation/  Where  Plato  has  the  doctrine  of  Reminis- 
cence, Neo-Platonism  has  the  doctrine  of  Fxstasy.  In  the 
Reminiscence  of  Plato,  the  ideas  the  mind  perceives  are  without 
it.  Here  there  is  no  mysticism,  only  the  mistake  incidental  to 
metaphysicians  generally,  of  giving  an  actual  existence  to  mere 
mental  abstractions.  In  Ecstasy,  the  ideas  perceived  are  within 
the  mind.  The  mystic,  according  to  Plotinus,  contemplates  die 
divine  perfections  in  himse  f ;  and,  in  the  ecstatic  state,  indivi- 
duality (which  is  so  much  imperfection),  memory,  time,  space, 
phenomenal  contradictions,  and  logical  distinctions,  all  vanish. 
It  is  not  until  the  rapture  is  past,  and  the  mind,  held  in  this 
strange  solution,  is,  as  it  were,  precipitated  on  reality,  that 
memory  is  again  employed.  Plotinus  would  say  that  Reminis- 
cence could  impart  only  inferior  knowledge,  because  it  implies 
separation  between  the  subject  and  the  object.  Ecstasy  is 
superior — is  absolute,  being  the  realization  of  their  identity. 
True  to  this  doctrine  of  absorption,  the  Panthei-.m  of  Plotinus 
teaches  him  to  maintain,  alike  with  the  Oriental  mystic  at  one 
extreme  of  time,  and  with  the  Hegelian  at  the  other,  that  our 
individual  existence  is  but  phenomenal  and  transitory.  Plotinus, 
accordingly,  does  not  banish  reason,  he  only  subordinates  it  to 
ecstasy  where  the  Absolute  is  in  question."  It  is  not  till  the 
last  that  he  calls  in  supernatural  aid.  The  wizard  king  builds 
his  tower  of  speculation  by  the  hands  of  human  workmen  till 
he  reaches  the  top  story,  and  then  summons  his  genii  to 
fashion  the  battlements  of  adamant,  and  crown  them  with 
starry  fire. 

GowER.  Thanks.     These  Neo-Platonists  are    evidently  no 
mere  dreamers.     They  are  erudite  and  critical,  they  study  and 
*  See  Jiiks  Simon,  ii.  pp.626,  &c.  *  See  Note  to  Chap.  III.  p.  qz. 


^S  The  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platoiiists.  [b.  m. 


they  reason,  they  are  logicians  as  well  as  poets ;  they  are  not 
mystics  till  they  have  first  been  rationalists,  and  they  have 
recourse  at  last  to  mysticism  only  to  carry  them  whither  they 
find  reason  cannot  mount. 

Atherton.  Now,  I  have  a  letter  by  Plotinus.  It  is  with- 
out a  date,  but  horn  internal  evidence  must  have  been  written 
about  A.D.  260. 

Plotinus  to  Flaccus. 

I  applaud  your  devotion  to  philosophy ;  I  rejoice  to  hear 
that  your  soul  has  set  sail,  like  the  returning  Ulysses,  for  its 
native  land— that  glorious,  that  only  real  country — the  world  of 
unseen  truth.  To  follow  philosophy,  the  senator  Rogatianus, 
one  of  the  noblest  of  my  disciples,  gave  up  the  other  day  all 
but  the  whole  of  his  patrimony,  set  free  his  slaves,  and  sur- 
rendered all  the  honours  of  his  station. 

Tidings  have  reached  us  that  Valerian  has  been  defeated, 
and  is  now  in  the  hands  of  Sapor.  The  threats  of  Franks  and 
Allemanni,  of  Goths  and  Persians,  are  alike  terrible  by  turns 
to  our  degenerate  Rome.  In  days  like  these,  crowded  with 
incessant  calamities,  the  inducements  to  a  life  of  contemplation 
are  more  than  ever  strong.  Even  my  quiet  existence  seems 
now  to  grow  somewhat  sensible  of  the  advance  of  years.  Ao-e 
alone  I  am  unable  to  debar  from  my  retirement.  I  am  weary 
already  of  this  prison-house,  the  body,  and  calmly  await  the 
day  when  the  divine  nature  within  me  shall  be  set  free  from 
matter. 

The  Egyptian  priests  used  to  tell  me  that  a  single  touch  wiili 
the  wing  of  their  holy  bird  could  charm  the  crocodile  into 
torpor  ;  it  is  not  thus  speedily,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  pinions 
of  your  soul  will  have  power  to  still  the  untamed  body.  The 
creature  will  yield  only  to  watchful,  strenuous  constancv  of 
habit.     Purify  your  soul  from  all   undue   hope  and  fear  about 


c.  2.]  Plot  ill  Hs  to  Fine  CHS.  79 

earthly  things,  mortify  the  body,  deny  self, — affections  as  well 
as  appetites,  and  the  inner  eye  will  begin  to  exercise  its  dear 
and  solemn  vision. 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  how  we  know,  and  what  is  our  crite- 
rion of  certainty.  To  write  is  always  irksome  to  me.  But  for 
the  continual  solicitations  of  Porphyry,  I  should  not  have  left  a 
line  to  survive  me.  For  your  own  sake  and  for  your  father's, 
my  reluctance  shall  be  overcome. 

External  objects  present  us  only  with  appearances.  Con- 
cerning them,  therefore,  we  may  be  said  to  possess  opinion 
rather  than  knowledge.  The  distinctions  in  the  actual  world 
of  appearance  are  of  import  only  to  ordinary  and  practical  men. 
Our  question  lies  with  the  ideal  reality  that  exists  behind 
appearance.  How  does  the  mind  perceive  these  ideas  ?  Are 
they  without  us,  and  is  the  reason,  like  sensation,  occupied 
with  objects  external  to  itself?  What  certainty  could  we  then 
have,  what  assurance  that  our  perception  was  infallible  ?  The 
object  perceived  would  be  a  something  different  from  the  mind 
jjerceiving  it.  We  should  have  then  an  image  instead  of 
reality.  It  would  be  monstrous  to  believe  for  a  moment  that 
the  mind  was  unable  to  perceive  ideal  truth  exactly  as  it  is,  and 
that  we  had  not  certainty  and  real  knowledge  concerning  the 
world  of  intelligence.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  this  region  of 
truth  is  not  to  be  investigated  as  a  thing  external  to  us,  and  so 
only  imperfectly  known.  It  is  wi//iiii  us.  Here  the  objects 
we  contemplate  and  that  which  contemplates  are  identical, — 
both  are  thought.  The  subject  cannot  surely  k/uno  an  object 
dilT'erent  from  itself.  The  world  of  ideas  lies  within  our  intelli- 
gence. Truth,  therefore,  is  not  the  agreement  of  our  apj^re- 
hension  of  an  external  object  with  the  object  itself.  It  is  the 
agreement  of  the  mind  with  itself.  Consciousness,  therefore, 
is  the  sole  basis  of  certainty.  The  mind  is  its  own  witness. 
Reason  sccb  in  itself  that  which  is  above  itself  as  its  source; 


bo  The  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platonlsts.         [b. 


and   again,    that   which   is   below   itself  as  still    ilself    once 

more. 

Knowledge  has  three  degrees— Opinion,  Science,  Illumina- 
tion. The  means  or  instrument  of  the  first  is  sense ;  of  the 
second,  dialectic  ;  of  the  third,  intuition.  To  the  last  I  sub- 
ordinate reason.  It  is  absolute  knowledge  founded  on  the 
identity  of  the  mind  knowing  with  the  object  known.' 

There  is  a  raying  out  of  all  orders  of  existence,  an  external 
emanation  from  the  ineffable  One  {tz^ooIoc).  There  is  again  a 
returning  impulse,  drawing  all  upwards  and  inwards  towards 
the  centre  from  whence  all  came  (fTrirrrpocpli).  Love,  as  Plato 
in  the  Banquet  beautifully  says,  is  the  child  of  Poverty  and 
Plenty.*  In  the  amorous  quest  of  the  soul  after  the  Good, 
lies  the  painful  sense  of  fall  and  deprivation.  But  that  Love  is 
blessing,  is  salvation,  is  our  guardian  genius ;  without  it  the 
centrifugal  law  would  overpower  us,  and  sweep  our  souls  out 
far  from  their  source  toward  the  cold  extremities  of  the  Material 
and  the  Manifold.  The  wise  man  recognises  the  idea  of  the 
Good  within  him.  This  he  develops  by  withdrawal  into  the 
Holy  Place  of  his  own  soul.  He  who  does  not  understand 
how  the  soul  contains  the  Beautiful  within  itself,  seeks  to  realize 
beauty  widiout,  by  laborious  production.  His  aim  should 
rather  be  to  concentra'e  and  simplify,  and  so  to  expand  his 

7   The  StfltementS  made  in    this    and        aurb?  vip  ovtw.  _  Kal  ei-apyr)?  aiTO?  avxc?. 

reasons  adduced  by  Plotinus  in  sup-      ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^,^  ^^^^-   ^^.  .^^_  .^^.  ^^-^^^  ^_^- 
port   of  them,    will   be   foimd    m  the       -^^0,5.  ' i^a-re  koI  17  omus  oAijeeia,  ov>  o-i/m- 

fifth  Eniiead,  lib.  v.  C.  I.     He  assumes        </,a)i'oCo-a  dAAu),  iAA'   eavrf.      Koi  oii&iv  Trap 

at  once  that  the  mind  must  be,  from  auTJjr  aAAo  Ae'yei  xal  eVri.   koi  o  Ictti  toCto 

its  very  nature,  the  standard  of  certi-  ^ai  \dyci,  p   522. 

tude.     He  asks  (p.  519)  "-^^  V"P  ^"^  «"  ^  P""-    "'•    ''b.  v.   capp.    2    &   7. 

coOs,  ivoijToiVui'  €lr);    hCi  ipa  airbi/  id  There  the  gardens  ofjove,  and  Porus, 

USevai    Kttl-  fiT)    B'av    eniXaeitTeai   Trore.  ^^jt^    his  plenty,    are  said  to  be  alle- 

He   urges   that    if  Intelligibles    were  gorical    representations  of   the    intel- 

without  the  mind  it  could  possess  but  jectual  food  of  a  soul  nourished  and 

images  of  them  ;  its  knowledge,  thus  delighted   by   the   truths   of    Reason, 

mediate,  would  be   imperfect,  p.  521.  Poverty,  again,  with  its  sense  of  need, 

Truth  consists  in  the  harmony  of  the  jg   j]-,g   source   of  intellectual    desire, 

mind   with    itself.     I^^l  yap   a5,   outuj?  (jomp.  Plato,  Sym/>.  p.  429  {Bci.k). 
ovS'  dTrcSetfews  Scl,  ov6e    ttiVtcws  on  ovTWS 


Plot  ill  US  on  Jus/asV>  8  i 


being ;  instead  of  going  out  into  the  Manitbld,  to  forsake  it  for 
the  One,  and  so  to  t^oat  upwards  towards  the  divine  fount  of 
being  whose  stream  flows  within  him. 

You  ask,  how  can  we  know  the  Infinite?'  I  answer,  not  by 
reason.  It  is  the  office  of  reason  to  distinguish  and  define. 
The  Infinite,  therefore,  cannot  be  ranked  among  its  objects. 
You  can  only  apprehend  the  Infinite  by  a  faculty  superior  to 
reason,  by  entering  into  a  state  in  which  you  are  your  finite 
self  no  longer,  in  which  the  Divine  Essence  is  communicated 
to  you.  This  is  Ecstasy.  It  is  the  liberation  of  your  mind  from 
its  finite  consciousness.  Like  only  can  apprehend  like  ;  when 
you  thus  cease  to  be  finite,  you  become  one  with  the  Infinite. 
In  the  reduction  of  your  soul  to  its  simplest  self  (nTrXwaig), 
its   divine    esssence,    you    realize    this    Union,    this    Identity 

(f'yojtTip). 

But  this  sublime  condition  is  not  of  permanent  duration.  It 
is  only  now  and  then  that  we  can  enjoy  this  elevation  (merci- 
fully made  possible  for  us)  above  the  limits  of  the  body  and 
the  world.  I  myself  have  realized  it  but  three  times  as  yet, 
and  Porphyry  hitherto  not  once.  All  that  tends  to  purify  and 
elevate  the  mind  will  assist  you  in  this  attainment,  and  facili- 
tate the  approach  and  the  recurrence  of  these  happy  intervals. 
There  are,  then,  different  roads  by  which  this  end  may  be 
reached.  The  love  of  beauty  which  exalts  the  poet ;  that  de- 
votion to  the  One  and  that  ascent  of  science  which  makes  the 
ambition  of  the  philosopher;  and  that  love  and  those  prayers 
by  which  some  devout  and  ardent  soul  tends  in  its  moral  purity 
towards  perfection.  These  are  the  great  highways  conducting 
to  that  height  above  the  actual  and  the  particular,  where  we 
stand  in  the  immediate  presence  of  the  Infinite,  who  shines 
out  as  from  the  deeps  of  the  soul." 

9  See  Note  2,  p.  82.  *°  Eiin.  i.  lib.  3,  c.  r. 

VOL.   I.  O 


82  The  Mysticism  of  the  Xeo-Phitonists.         [n.  m. 


NOTi:   TO   PAGE   75. 

This  imaginary  fragment  from  Ammonius  Saccas  is,  I  beliine,  inu!  to 
what  seems  fairly  inferred  concerning  his  teaching.  See  Bnn-kt-r,  ii.  p.  211  ; 
ani.  yules  Simon,  i.  205  ;  ii.  668. 

.'lotinus  appears  to  have  been  indebted  to  Numenius  even  more  tlian  to 
..mmonius  or  Potamon  for  some  of  the  ideas  peculiar  to  his  svstcm.  The 
modicum  of  information  concerning  Numenius  which  Eusebius  has  handed 
down  shows  that  this  Platonist  anticipated  the  characteristic  doctrine  of 
Neo-Platonism  concerning  the  Divine  Being.  Like  the  Neo-Platonist,  he 
pursued  philosophical  inquiry  in  a  religious  spirit,  imploring,  as  Plotinus 
does,  divine  illumination.  He  endeavoured  to  harmonize  Pythagoras  and 
Plato,  to  elucidate  and  confirm  the  opinions  of  both  by  the  religious  dog- 
mas of  the  Egyptians,  the  Magi,  and  the  Brahmins,  and,  like  many  of  the 
Christian  Fathers,  he  believed  that  Plato  stood  indebted  to  the  Hebrew  as 
well  as  to  the  Egyptian  theology  for  much  of  his  wisdom.  He  was  pressed 
by  the  same  grea't  difficulty  whicli  weighed  upon  Plotinus.  How  could  the 
immutable  Oiie  create  the  Manifold  without  self-degradation  ?  He  solved  it 
in  a  manner  substantially  the  same.  His  answer  is— by  means  of  a  hjpostatic 
emanation.  He  posits  in  the  Divine  Nature  three  principles  in  a  descending 
scale.     His  order  of  existence  is  as  follows  : — 

I.   God,  the  Absolute. 

n.  The  Demiurge ;  he  is  the  Artificer,  in  a  sense,  the  imitator  of  the 
former.  He  contemplates  matter,  his  eye  ordains  and  upholds  it,  yet  he  is 
himself  separate  from  it,  since  matter  contains  a  concupiscent  principle,— is 
fluctuating,  and  philosophically  non-existent.  The  Demiurge  is  the  ipxv 
vere'crews,  and  good  ;  for  goodness  is  the  original  principle  of  Being.  Tlie 
second  Hypostasis,  engaged  in  the  contemplation  of  matter,  does  not  attain 
the  serene  self-contemplation  of  the  First. 

ni.  5«^j/a??fe  or  Essence,  of  a  twofold  character,  corresponding  to  the  two 
former. 

The  Universe  is  a  copy  of  this  third  Principle. 

This  not  very  intelligible  theory,  which  of  course  increases  instead  of  les- 
sening the  perplexity  in  which  the  Platonists  were  involved,  though  differing 
in  detail  from  that  of  Plotinus,  proceeds  on  the  same  principle  ; — the  expedient, 
namely,  of  appending  to  the  One  certain  subordinate  hypostases  to  fill  the  gap 
between  it  and  the  Manifold.  (See,  on  his  opinions,  Eitseb.  Prcrp.  /-hurug.  lib. 
viii.  p.  411  (ed.  Viger)  ;  lib.  xi.  c.  18,  p.  537  ;  capp.  21,  22,  and  lib.  xv.  c.  17. 

NOTK   TO   PAGE   81. 

Plotinus  and  his  successors  are  the  model  of  the  Pseudo-Dionxsius  in  his 
language  concerning  the  Deity.  Of  his  abstract  primal  principle  neither  being 
nor  life  can  be  predicated  ;  he  is  above  being  and  above  life.  £u//.  iii.  lib.  8. 
c.  9.  But  man  by  simplifying  his  nature  to  the  utmost  possible  extent  may 
become  lost  in  this  Unity.  In  £»;!.  v.  lib.  S,  c.  8,  the  mind  of  the  contemplative 
philosopher  is  described  as  illumined  with  a  divine  light.  He  cannot  tell 
whence  it  comes,  or  whither  it  goes.  It  is  rather  he  himself  who  approaches 
or  withdraws.  He  must  not  pursue  it  (ov  xpn  &i<iK€iv)  but  abide  (a  true 
Quietist)  in  patient  waiting,  as  one  looking  for  the  rising  of  the  sun  out  of  the 
ocean.  The  soul,  blind  to  all  beside,  gazes  intently  on  the  ideal  vision  of  ths 
beautiful,  and  is  glorified  as  it  contemplates  it— e'te^  eovroi/ TrasTpeTrwi/KalSiSoi-j 

o-Ta?    6e   KoX   olov    7rAv7pM6eis    jneVovs,  c'Se  fj-iv   ra  irpoiTa    koAAiw  yn'oixti'ou    iavTcv,   kcj 

But  this   is  only  a  preliminary  stage  of  exaltation.     Tlie  Absolute    or  the 


fc.  2]  Plotiitns  on  Ecstasy.  83 

One,  has  no  parts  ;  all  tilings  partake  of  him,  nothing  possesses  him  ;  to  see 
impartially  is  an  impossibility,  a  contradiction, — if  we  imagine  we  recognise  a 
portion  he  is  far  from  ns  yet, — to  see  him  mediately  (i5i'  kripiuv)  is  to  behold  Iiii 
traces,  not  himself.  'Orai/ ,xer' 6p5s  oAo;' /SAeVe.  But,  asks  I'lotiniis,  is  not  seeing 
him  wholly  identity  with  liim  ?  cap.  lo. 

The  mystical  aspirant  is  directed  therefore  to  leave  the  glorified  image 
of  himself,  radiant  with  the  transforming  eft'ulgence  of  Beauty,  to  escape  from 
liis  individual  self  by  withdrawing  into  liis  own  unity,  wherein  he  becomes 
identified  W  itil  the  Infinite  One  -tii  'iv  avnZ  eA^ioi;,  koI  fiiJKeTi.  trxtVa;,  iv  bfxov  navTa 
to-Ti /oier' execVou  ToO  Gtov,  oii//o<|)7)Tt  Trapoi'Tos.    Retreating  intO  the  inmost  recesses 

of  his  own  being,    he   there  ^X^'  irav,  koI  ai^eW  tV"  ai<T(!ij<Ti.v  tis  t'  ovttCctui,   toC  eVepos 

elvai  4>oPV'  ^'5  c'o-TiV  cKei.  No  language  could  more  clearly  express  the  doctrine 
of  identity — the  object  seen  and  the  subject  seeing  are  one.     Plotinus  trium- 

phantls'  asks —  "■■"?  O"''  f^'Tai  ti;  iu  xaXiZ,  /U.7)  opfj-uiv  avTo;  rj  bpuv  ain'o  tu;  irepov,  ovSttui 
ti'  KaXo'i'  yev6;j (;■■■':  S}  "'-h  /■-'-..,  /"•'XicrTa  ei/ ifaAoV  el  oiiv  opaais  TOu  t^u>,  Ofiaciv  jJLtu  oil 
(.{L  tlt'Ci,  n  Oi'To;;  lij  TauToy  Ttu  o^-aTa!.     J^r/d.  pp.  552-3. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Lume  e  lassii  clie  visibile  face 
Lo  creatore  a  quella  creatura 
Che  solo  in  lui  vederc  ha  la  sua  pace.i 

Dante. 


M 


RS.  ATHERTON.  I  confess  I  cannot  understand 
what  that  state  of  mind  can  be  which  Plotinus  calls 
ecstasy  in  the  letter  you  read  us  last  night,  and  about  which 
most  of  your  mystical  fraternity  talk  so  mysteriously. 

Kate.  I  think  I  shall  have  myself  mesmerised  some  day  to 
form  an  idea. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  suppose  the  mystic,  by  remaining  for  many 
hours  (enfeebled,  perhaps,  by  fast  and  vigil),  absolutely  mo- 
tionless, ceasing  to  think  of  anything — except  that  he  thinks 
he  is  successful  in  thinking  of  nothing,  and  staring  pertina- 
ciously at  vacancy,  throws  himself  at  last  into  a  kind  of  trance. 
In  this  state  he  may  perceive,  even  when  the  eyes  are  closed, 
some  luminous  appearance,  perhaps  the  result  of  pressure  on 
the  optic  nerve — I  am  not  anatomist  enough  to  explain  ;  and 
if  his  mind  be  strongly  imaginative,  or  labouring  with  the 
ground-swell  of  recent  excitement,  this  light  may  shape  itself 
into  archetype,  daemon,  or  what  not.  In  any  case,  the  more 
distinct  the  object  seen,  the  more  manifestly  is  it  the  projection 
of  his  own  mind— a  Brocken-phantom,  the  enlarged  shadow  of 
himself  moving  on  some  shifting  tapestry  of  mist. 

Kate.  Like  the  woodman  described  by  Coleridge  as  behold- 
ing with  such  awe  an  appearance  of  the  kind,  when  he 

1  There  is  above  a  light  which  creature  who  finds  his  peace  only  in 
makes    visible    the    Creaior    to    that      the  vision  of  Him. 


c.  3.]  Injiiiciice  on  tJie  C/nirch.  85 

Sees  full  before  him  gliding  wiilunit  tread 
An  image  with  a  glory  round  its  head, 
This  shade  he  worships  for  its  golden  hues, 
And  makes  (not  knowing)  that  v\  hich  he  pursues. 

Atherton.  Such  has  been  the  god  of  many  a  niysiic.  He 
will  soar  above  means,  experience,  history,  external  revelation, 
and  ends  by  mistaking  a  hazy  reflex  of  his  own  image  for  Deity. 

GowER.  But  we  must  not  forget  that,  according  to  Plotinus, 
all  sense  of  personality  is  lost  during  ecstasy,  and  he  would  re- 
gard any  hght  or  form  whatever  (presented  to  what  one  may 
call  his  cerebral  vision)  as  a  sign  that  the  trance  was  yet 
incomplete.  He  yearns  to  escape  from  everything  that  can 
be  distinguished,  bounded,  or  depicted,  into  the  illimitable 
inane. 

Atherton.  Very  true.  And  it  is  this  extreme  of  negation 
and  abstraction  for  which  Plotinus  is  remarkable,  that  makes  it 
alone  worth  our  while  to  talk  so  much  about  him.  His  philo- 
sophy and  that  of  his  successors,  mistaken  for  Platonism,  was 
to  corrupt  the  Christian  Church.  For  hundreds  of  years  there 
will  be  a  succession  of  prelates,  priests,  or  monks,  in  whose 
eyes  the  frigid  refinements  of  Plotinus  will  be  practically,  though 
not  confessedly,  regarded  as  representing  God  far  more  worthily 
than  the  grand  simplicity  and  the  forcible  figurativeness  of 
Scripture  language.  For  the  Christian's  God  will  be  substituted 
that  sublime  cypher  devised  by  Plotinus — that  blank  some- 
thing, of  which  you  cannot  say  that  it  exists,  for  it  is  above 
existence. 

Stop  a  moment — let  me  tell  my  beads,  and  try  to  count  off 
the  doctrines  we  shall  meet  with  again  and  again  in  those  forms 
of  Christian  mysticism  where  the  Neo-Platonist  element  pre- 
vails— the  germs  of  all  lie  in  Plotinus. 

There  is,  first  of  all,  the  principle  of  negation  ;  that  all  so- 
called  manifestations  and  revelations  of  God  do  in  fact  veil  him  ; 
^hat  no  affirmative  can  be  predicated   of  him,  because  he  ia 


86  The  Mystidsvi  of  the  Nco-Platonists.         [b.  m. 

above  all  our  positive  conceptions  j  that  all  s)'mbols,  figures, 
media,  partial  representations,  must  be  utterly  abandoned  be- 
cause, as  finite,  they  fall  infinitely  short  of  the  Infinite. 

Here  we  are  sunk  below  humanity — our  knowledge  consists 
in  ignorance — our  vision  in  darkness. 

The  next  step  raises  us  in  an  instant  from  this  degrading 
limitation  up  to  Deity — -'  sets  our  feet  in  a  large  room,'  as  the 
later  mystics  phrased  it — even  in  infinity,  and  identifies  us  for 
a  time  with  God. 

Since  the  partial  finite  way  of  knowing  God  is  so  worthless, 
to  know  him  truly  we  must  escape  from  the  finite,  from  all  pro- 
cesses, all  media,  from  the  very  gifts  of  God  to  God  himself, 
and  know  him  immediately,  completely,  in  the  infinite  way — 
by  receiving,  or  being  received  into,  him  directly. 

To  attain  tliis  identity,  in  which,  during  a  brief  space  of  rap- 
ture at  least,  the  subject  and  object,  the  knower  and  the  known, 
are  one  and  the  same,  we  must  withdraw  into  our  inmost  selves, 
into  that  simple  oneness  of  our  own  essence  which  by  its  very 
rarity  is  susceptible  of  blending  with  that  supreme  attenuation 
called  the  Divine  Essence.  So  doing,  we  await  in  passivity 
the  glory,  the  embrace  of  Union.  Hence  the  inmost  is  the 
highest — introversion  is  ascension,  and  iiitrorsuni  asccudcre  the 
watchword  of  all  mystics.  God  is  found  v.'ithin,  at  once  radia- 
ting from  the  depths  of  the  soul,  and  absorbing  it  as  the  husk 
of  personality  drops  away. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  so  the  means  and  faculties  God  has  given 
us  for  knowing  him  are  to  lie  unused. 

Atherton.  Certainly ;  night  must  fiill  on  reason,  imagina- 
tion, memory — on  our  real  powers — that  an  imaginary  power 
may  awake.  This  is  what  the  mystics  call  the  absorption  of 
the  powers  in  God,  leaving  active  within  us  nothing  natural,  in 
order  that  God  may  be  substituted  for  ourselves,  and  all  opera- 
tions within  be  supernatural,  and  even  divine. 


c.  3.]  Inadequacy  of  mere  Intuition.  8  7 

GowER.  Then  mysticism  is  a  spiritual  art  whereby  the 
possible  is  forsaken  for  the  impossible — the  knowable  for  the 
vuiknowable. 

\\'iLLOUGHEY.  Or  a  contrivance,  say,  for  reaching  Divinil)- 
which  realizes  only  torpor. 

GowER.  A  sorry  sight  this  misdirection  and  disappoinlniL-nt 
of  spiritual  aspiration.  Does  it  not  remind  you  of  that  ever- 
suggestive  legend  of  Psyche — how  she  has  to  carry  the  box  of 
celestial  beauty  to  Venus,  and  by  the  way  covets  some  of  this 
loveiines^  for  herself.  She  lifts  the  lid,  and  there  steals  out  a 
soporific  vapour,  throwing  her  into  a  deep  slumber  on  the  edge 
of  a  dizzy  precipice.  There  she  lies  entranced  till  Eros  comes 
to  waken  and  to  rescue  her. 

Athkrton.  I  should  grow  very  tiresome  if  I  were  now  to 
attempt  to  indicate  the  likeness  and  the  difference  between 
ancient  and  modern  speculation  on  these  questions,  and  where 
I  think  the  error  lies,  and  \\hy.  But  you  must  bear  with  me, 
Kate,  if  I  hang  some  dry  remarks  on  what  you  said  just  now. 

Kate.  I  am  sure  I — 

Atherton,  You  quoted  Coleridge  a  minute  since.  He  first, 
and  after  him  Carlyle,  familiarized  England  with  the  German 
distinction  between  reason  and  understanding.  In  fact,  wliat 
tlie  Epicureans  and  the  Stoics  were  to  Plotinus  in  his  day,  that 
were  Priestley  and  Paley  to  Coleridge.  The  spiritualist  is  the 
sworn  foe  of  your  rationalist  and  pleasures-of-virtue  man.  Ro- 
mance must  loathe  utilitarianism,  enthusiasm  scorn  expediency. 
Hence  the  reaction  which  gives  us  Schelling  as  the  Plotinus  of 
Berlin,  and  Coleridge  as  the  Schelling  of  Highgate.  The 
understanding  had  been  over-tasked — set  to  work  unanimated 
and  unaided  by  the  conscience  and  the  heart.  The  result  was 
pitiable — lifeless  orthodoxy  and  sneering  scepticism.  Chris- 
tianity was  elaborately  defended  on  its  external  evidences  ;  the 
internal  evidence  of  its  own  nature  overlooked. 


S  o  The  Mysticism  of  the  Nco-Platonisis.  [i 


What  was  needful  at  such  a  juncture?  Surely  that  both 
should  be  employed  in  healthful  alliance — the  understanding 
and  the  conscience — the  faculty  which  distinguishes  and  judges, 
and  the  faculty  which  presides  over  our  moral  nature,  deciding 
about  right  and  wrong.  These  are  adequate  to  recognise  the 
claims  of  Revelation.  The  intellectual  faculty  can  deal  with 
the  historic  evidence,  the  moral  can  pronounce  concerning  the 
tendency  of  the  book,  righteous  or  unrighteous.  In  those 
features  of  it  unexplained  and  inexplicable  to  the  understand- 
ing, if  we  repose  on  faith,  we  do  so  on  grounds  which  the 
understanding  shows  to  be  sound.  Hence  the  reception  given 
to  Christianity  is  altogether  reasonable. 

But  no  such  moderate  ground  as  this  would  satisfy  the  ardour 
which  essayed  reform  ;  the  understanding,  because  it  could  not 
do  everything — could  not  be  the  whole  mind,  but  only  apart— 
because  it  was  proved  unequal  to  accomplish  alone  the  work  of 
all  our  faculties  together,  was  summarily  cashiered.  We  must 
have  for  religion  a  new,  a  higher  faculty.  Instead  of  reinforcing 
the  old  power,  a  novel  nomenclature  is  devised  which  seems  to 
endow  man  with  a  loftier  attribute.  This  faculty  is  the  intuition 
of  Plotinus,  the  Intcllectuelle  Anschauwig  of  Schelling  ;  the 
Intuitive  Reason,  Source  of  Ideas  and  Absolute  Truths,  the 
Organ  of  Philosophy  and  Theology,  as  Coleridge  styles  it.  It 
is  a  direct  beholding,  which,  according  to  Plotinus,  rises  in  some 
moments  of  exaltation  to  ecstasy.  It  is,  according  to  Schelling, 
a  realization  of  the  identity  of  subject  and  object  in  the  indivi- 
dual, which  blends  him  with  that  identity  of  subject  and  object 
called  God  ;  so  that,  carried  out  of  himself,  he  does,  in  a  manner, 
think  divine  thoughts — views  all  things  from  their  highest  point 
of  view — mind  and  matter  from  the  centre  of  their  identity.'' 
He  becomes  recipient,  according  to  Emerson,  of  the  Soul  of 
ihe  world.     He  loses,  according  to  Coleridge,  the  particular  in 

2  See  Schelling's  System  dcs  Traii-      (Tubingen,    1800),    and    Chalybasns, 
ecndentalcii     Idcalismns,     pp.     1923      Hiit.  Entw,  d.  Spec.  V/ul.  ]>. '2^'\- 


c.  3.]  Inadequacy  of  mere  Intiiitio}i.  89 

the  universal  reason ;  finds  tliat  ideas  appear  within  him  from 
an  internal  source  supplied  by  the  Logos  or  Eternal  Word  of 
God — an  infallible  utterance  from  the  divine  original  of  man's 
highest  nature.^ 

WiLLOUGHBV.  One  aim  in  all — to  escape  the  surface  varieties 
of  our  individual  (or  more  properly  dividual)  being,  and  pene- 
trate to  the  universal  truth — the  absolute  certainty  everywhere 
the  same : — a  shaft-sinking  operation — a  descent  into  our 
original  selves — digging  down,  in  one  case  from  a  garden,  in 
another  from  a  waste,  here  from  the  heart  of  a  town,  there  from 
a  meadow,  but  all  the  miners  are  to  find  at  the  bottom  a  com- 
mon ground — the  primaeval  granite— the  basis  of  the  eternal 
truth-pillars.  This  I  take  to  be  the  object  of  the  self-simplifi- 
cation Plotinus  inculcates — to  get  beneath  the  finite  superficial 
accretions  of  our  nature. 

Atherton.  And  what  comes  of  it  after  all  ?  After  denuding 
ourselves  of  all  results  of  experience,  conditioned  distinctions, 
&:c.,  we  are  landed  in  a  void,  we  find  only  hollow  silence,  if  we 
may  accept  a  whisper  or  two,  saying  that  ingratitude,  treachery, 
fraud,  and  similar  crimes,  are  very  wrong. 

GowER.  And  even  these  dictates  are  those  of  our  moral  sense, 
not  of  an  intellectual  i)ower  of  insight.  For  surely  to  call  con- 
science practical  Reason,  as  Kant  does,  is  only  to  confound  our 
moral  and  intellectual  nature  together. 

Atherton.  Very  well,  then.  Seclude  and  simplify  your- 
self thoroughly,  and  you  do  not  find  data  within  you  equal 
to  your  need  — equal  to  show  you  what  God  is,  has  done, 
should  do,  &c. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  all  these  intuitionalists  profess  to  evolve 
from  their  depths  very  much  more  than  those  simplest  ethical 
perceptions. 

Atherton.  By  carrying  down  with  them  into  those  depths 

^  Aids  to  Reflection,  pp.  225,  249.  nating  criticism  of  this  doctrine  in  the 
The  reader  is  referred  to  a  discrimi-      British  Quarterly  Rcz'iav,  No.  xxxvii. 


90  The  Mysticism  of  tlic  Neo-Platonists.        [b.  m. 

tlie  results  of  the  understanding,  of  experience,  of  external  cuU 
ture,  and  tlien  bringing  them  up  to  hght  again  as  though  they 
had  newly  emerged  from  the  recesses  of  the  Infinite.  This 
intuitional  metal,  in  its  native  state,  is  mere  fluent,  formless 
quicksilver  ;  to  make  it  definite  and  serviceable  you  must  fix  it 
by  an  alloy  ;  but  then,  alas  !  it  \%  pure  Reason  no  longer,  and, 
so  far  from  being  universal  truth,  receives  a  countless  variety  of 
shapes,  according  to  the  temperament,  culture,  or  philosophic 
party,  of  the  individual  thinker.  So  that,  in  the  end,  the  result 
is  merely  a  dogmatical  investiture  of  a  man's  own  notions  witli 
a  sort  of  divine  authority.  You  dispute  with  Schelling,  and  he 
waves  you  away  as  a  profime  and  intuitionless  laic.  What  is 
this  but  the  sacerdotalism  of  the  philosopher?  The  fanatical 
mystic  who  believes  himself  called  on  to  enforce  the  fantasies 
of  his  special  revelation  upon  other  men,  does  not  more  utterly 
contemn  argument  than  does  the  theosophist,  when  he  bids  you 
kick  your  understanding  back  into  its  kennel,  and  hearken  in 
reverend  awe  to  his  intuitions. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Telling  you,  too,  that  if  your  inward  witness 
does  not  agree  with  his,  you  are,  philosophically  speaking,  in 
the  gall  of  bitterness  and  the  bond  of  iniquity. 

Atherton.  You  are  catching  the  apprt)ved  style  of  expression 
so  much  in  vogue  with  our  modern  religious  infidelity.  This  is 
the  artifice — to  be  scriptural  in  phrase,  and  anti-scriptural  in 
sense  :  to  parade  the  secret  symbols  of  Christianity  in  the  van 
of  that  motley  army  which  marches  to  assail  it. 

GowER.  The  expedient  reminds  me  of  the  device  of  Cam- 
liyses,  who,  when  he  drew  out  his  forces  against  the  Egyptians, 
placed  a  row  of  ibises  in  front  of  his  line,  and  the  Egyptians,  it 
is  said,  suftered  defeat  rather  than  discharge  an  arrow  which 
might  wound  the  birds  they  worshipped. 

WiLLOUGHBV.  To  go  back  to  Plotinus."     That  doctrine  of 

*  See  Note,  p.  92. 


3-]  Necessitarian  Ethics.  qi 


the  Epistroplie — tlie  return  of  all  intelligence  by  a  law  of  nature 
to  the  divine  centre— must  inevitably  be  associated  with  the 
unhealthy  morality  always  attendant  on  pantheism.  It  is  an 
organic  process  godward,  ending  in  loss  of  personal  existence, 
no  moral  or  spiritual  elevation. 

GowER.  His  abstract  Unity  has  no  character,  only  negation 
of  all  conceivable  attributes — so  will  and  character  can  have  no 
place  in  his  theory  of  assimilation  to  God.  Self-culture  is  self- 
reduction.  What  a  plan  of  the  universe  ! — all  intelligence 
magnetically  drawn  to  the  Centre,  like  the  ships  to  the  Mountain 
of  the  Loadstone  in  the  Arabian  Nights — as  they  approach, 
the  nails  which  hold  them  together  are  withdrawn,  they  fall 
apart,  and  all  the  fabric  is  dissolved, 

WiLLOUGHBV.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  rapidly  the  mind 
gives  way  under  the  unnatural  strain  of  this  super-essential  ab- 
straction, and  indemnifies  itself  by  imaginative  and  fantastical 
excesses  for  the  attempt  to  sojourn  in  an  atmosphere  so  rare. 
At  first,  ecstasy  is  an  indescribable  state — any  form  or  voice 
would  mar  and  materialize  it.  The  vague  boundlessness  of 
this  exaltation,  in  which  the  soul  swoons  away,  is  not  to  be 
hinted  at  by  the  highest  utterance  of  mortal  speech.  But  a 
degenerate  age  or  a  lower  order  of  mind  demands  the  detail 
and  imagery  of  a  more  tangible  marvel.  The  demand 
creates  supply,  and  the  mystic,  deceiver  or  deceived,  or  both, 
begins  to  furnish  forth  for  himself  and  others  a  full  itinerary  ol 
those  regions  in  the  unseen  world  which  he  has  scanned  or 
traversed  in  his  moments  of  elevation.  He  describes  the 
starred  baldrics  and  meteor-swords  of  the  aerial  panoply  ;  tells 
what  forlorn  shapes  have  been  seen  standing  dark  against  a 
far  depth  of  brightness,  like  stricken  pines  on  a  sunset  horizon  ; 
what  angelic  forms,  in  gracious  companies,  alight  about  the 
haunts  of  men,  thwarting  the  evil  and  opening  pathways  for  the 
good  ;  what  genii  tend  what  mortals,  and  under  what  astral 


9  2  TJic  Mysticism  of  the  Nco-Platonists.         [c  m. 


influences  they  work  weal  or  woe  ;  what  beings  of  the  middle 
air  crowd  in  embattled  rows  the  mountain  side,  or  fill  some 
vast  amphitheatre  of  silent  and  inaccessible  snow, — how  some 
encamp  in  the  valley,  under  the  pennons  of  the  summer 
lightning,  and  others  find  a  tented  field  where  the  slow  wind 
unrolls  the  exhalations  along  the  marsh,  and  builds  a  billowy 
canopy  of  vapours  :  all  is  largely  told, — what  ethereal  heraldry 
marshals  with  its  blazon  the  thrones  and  dominions  of  the  unseen 
realm  ;  what  giant  powers  and  principalities  darken  with  long 
shadow,  or  illumine  with  a  winged  wake  of  glory,  the  forms  of 
following  myriads, — their  ranks  and  races,  wars  and  destiny,  as 
minutely  registered  as  the  annals  of  some  neighbour  province, 
as  confidently  recounted  as  though  the  seer  had  nightly  slipped 
his  bonds  of  flesh,  and  mingled  in  their  council  or  their  battle. 
Atherton.  a  true  portraiture.  Observe  how  this  mysticism 
pretends  to  raise  man  above  self  into  the  universal,  and  issues 
in  giving  us  only  what  is  personal.  It  presents  us,  after  all, 
only  with  the  creations  of  the  fancy,  the  phenomena  of  the 
sensibility  peculiar  to  the  individual, — that  finite,  personal 
idiosyncrasy  which  is  so  despised.  Its  philosophy  of  the 
universe  subsides  into  a  morbid  psychology.  Man  is  persuaded 
that  he  is  to  traverse  the  realms  of  fire  and  air,  where  the  in- 
telligible essences  and  archetypes  of  all  things  dwell ;  and, 
like  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha,  he  never  stirs  in  reality  from 
the  little  grass-plot  of  individual  temperament  on  which  his 
wondrous  wooden  horse  stands  still.  This  theosophy  professes 
to  make  man  divine,  and  it  fails  at  last  to  keep  him  even 
rational.  It  prevents  his  becoming  what  he  might  be,  while  it 
promises  to  make  him  what  he  never  can  become. 


Note  to  page  90. 

M.  Simon  has  shown,  with  much  acnteness,  in  what  way  the  exigencies 
of  the  system  of  Plotinus  compelled  him  tQ  have  recourse  to  a  new  facuhy, 
distinct  from  reason- 


I 


c.  3.]  Plotinus   System  a  Failure.  93 

Plotinus  perceived  that  Plato  liad  not  been  true  to  the  consequences  of 
Vis  own  dialectics.  When  he  had  reached  the  summit  of  his  logical  ab- 
straction,—had  passed  through  dctinition  after  definition,  each  more  in- 
tangible than  the  last,  on  his  wuy  upward  towards  the  One,  he  arrived  at 
last  at  a  God  who  was  above  Being  itself.  From  tiiis  result  lie  shrank  and 
so  ceased  to  be  consistent.  How  could  .such  a  God  be  a  God  of  1  royi- 
dence  such  a  shadow  of  a  shade  a  creator?  Plato  was  not  prepared,  like 
Plotinus  to  soar  so  completely  above  experience  and  the  practical  as  to 
accept  the  utmost  consequences  of  his  logical  process.  So,  that  his  God 
mif^ht  be  still  the  God  of  Providence,  he  retained  him  within  the  sphere  ol 
reason,  gave  him  Being,  Thought,  Power,  and  called  him  the  Demiurge. 
When  Plotinus,  like  a  true  eclectic,  carried  still  farther  his  survey  of  what 
history  aflorded  him,  he  found  Aristotle  postulating  a  Deity  so  restricted  by 
his  own  abstraction  and  immutability  as  to  render  it  impossible  to  associate 
with  his  nature  the  idea  of  superintendence.  It  was  feared  that  to  repre- 
sent God  as  the  God  of  Creation  and  of  Providence  would  be  to  dualize 
him  And  yet  the  world  did  exist.  How  were  the  serene  and  remote 
UniW  demanded  by  logic,  and  that  activity  and  contact  with  matter  no 
less  imperatively  demanded  for  God  by  experience,  to  be  reconciled  with 
each  other?  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  there  was  no  real  dith- 
culty  The  whole  problem  was  the  result  of  the  notion,  so  universal,  con- 
cerning the  evil  of  matter,  and  of  the  wrong  answer  given  by  ancient  philo- 
sophy to  the  vexed  question-Does  the  Supreme  work  T^e.j-ac,  or  to.  ^ovAeaflac? 
Philosophy  maintained  the  former;  the  Christian  Church  the  latter.  To 
remove  this  obstacle  which  philosophy  had  itself  constructed,  Plotinus  pro- 
posed his  theory  of  these  hypostases,  in  the  Divine  Nature.  Above  and 
beyond  a  God  such  as  that  of  Plato,  he  places  another  like  that  of  Aristotle, 
and  above  him  a  simple  Unity,  like  the  God  of  the  Eleatics.  The  last 
was  the  ultimatum  of  the  process  of  logical  simplification— a  something  above 
being  But  the  hypothesis  was  destitute  of  proof— it  was,  in  fact,  con- 
trary to  reason.  'Plotinus  must  therefore  either  surrender  his  theory  or 
bid  farewell  to  reason.  He  chose  the  latter  course.  He  does  not  deny  the 
important  services  of  reason,  but  he  professes  to  transcend  its  limits.  He 
calls  in  mysticism  to  substantiate,  by  the  doctrines  of  Illumination  and  Iden- 
tity, his  imaginary  God.  He  affirms  a  God  beyond  reason,  and  then  a 
faculty  beyond  reason  to  discern  that  God  withal.     _ 

This  attempt  to  solve  the  problem  in  question  is  of  course  a  failure.  It 
is  still  more  open  than  the  system  of  Plato  to  Aristotle's  objection,  that  it 
resembled  the  expedient  of  an  arithmetician  who  should  endeavour  to  sim- 
plify a  calculation  he  found  perplexing  by  taking  still  higher  figures. 
Plotinus  does  not  explain  what  he  means  by  a  Hypostasis.  If  the  Hypos- 
tases in  his  Trinity  have  reality,  the  ideal  unity  he  is  so  anxious  to  preserve 
in  the  divine  Nature  is  after  all  destroyed.  If  they  have  not,  the  gap 
between  ^he  One  and  the  Manifold  is  still  without  a  bridge,  and  the  diffi- 
culty they  are  introduced  to  remove  remains  in  effect  where  it  wa.-.  If  this 
hypothesis  had  made  no  part  of  the  system  of  Plotinus,  the  great  occasion 
for  the  doctrine  of  Ecstasy  and  the  most  powerful  internal  inducement  to 
mysticism  would  have  been  wanting.  The  philosopher  escapes  from  his 
labyrinth  by  borrowing  the  wings  of  the  mystic— See  Jules  Simon,  tom.  i. 
pp.  63,  84  ;  ii.  462. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Storgcizc.  'Tis  drawn,  I  assure  jou,  from  the  aplioriinis  of  the  old  Chnl- 
deans  Zoroaster  the  first  and  greatest  magician;  Mercurius  Trismegistus,  tiie 
later  Ptolemy,  and  the  everlasting  prognosticator,  old  Erra  Pater.— Massinger. 

V\/'ILLOUGHBY.  We  have  now  about  done,  I  suppose, 
with  the  theosophic  branch  of  the  Neo-Platonist 
school;  with  its  latest  leaders  it  degenerates  into  theurgic 
mysticism. 

Kate.  I  hope  it  is  going  to  degenerate  into  something  one 
can  understand. 

GowER.  The  great  metaphysician,  Plotinus,  is  off  the  stage, 
that  is  some  comfort  for  you,  Miss  Merivale.  Magic  is  less 
wearisome  than  metaphysics. 

Atherton.  The  change  is  marked,  indeed.  Plotinus,  wrapt 
in  his  proud  abstraction,  cared  little  for  fame.  His  listening 
disciples  were  his  world.  Porphyry  entered  his  school  fresh 
from  the  study  of  Aristotle.  At  first  the  daring  opponent  of 
the  master,  he  soon  became  tlie  most  devoted  of  his  scholars. 
With  a  temperament  more  active  and  practical  than  that  ot 
Plotinus,  v.'ith  more  various  ability  and  far  more  facility  in 
adaptation,  with  an  erudition  equal  to  his  fidelity,  blameless  in 
his  life,  pre-eminent  in  the  loftiness  and  purity  of  his  ethics, 
he  was  well  fitted  to  do  all  that  could  be  done  towards  secur- 
ing for  the  doctrines  he  had  espoused  that  reputation  and  that 
wider  influence  to  which  Plotinus  was  so  indifferent.  His  aim 
was  twofold.  He  engaged  in  a  conflict  hand  to  hand  with 
two  antagonists  at  once,  by  both  of  whom  he  was  evenlually 


c.  4.]  HcatJiLndom  cannot  be  rescued.  95 

vanquished.  He  commenced  an  assault  on  Christianity  with- 
out, and  he  endeavoured  to  check  the  progress  of  superstitious 
usage  within  the  pale  of  Paganism.  But  Christianity  could 
not  be  repulsed,  and  heathendom  would  not  be  reformed.  In 
vain  did  he  attempt  to  substitute  a  single  philosophical  religion 
which  should  be  universal,  for  the  manifold  and  popular  Poly- 
theism of  the  day.  Christian  truth  repelled  his  attack  on  the 
one  side,  and  idolatrous  superstition  carried  his  defences  on  the 
other. 

Wi [,i.!)L>;HiiV.  A  more  false  position  could  scarcely  have  been 
assumed.  Men  like  Porphyry  constituted  themselves  the 
defenders  of  a  Paganism  which  did  but  partially  ackno\A'ledge 
their  advocacy.  Often  suspected  by  the  Emperors,  they  were 
still  oftener  maligned  and  persecuted  by  the  jealousy  of  the 
priests.  They  were  the  unaccredited  champions  of  Paganism, 
for  they  sought  to  refine  while  they  conserved  it.  They  de- 
fended it,  not  as  zealots,  but  as  men  of  letters.'  They  defended 
it  because  the  old  foith  could  boast  of  great  names  and  great 
achievements  in  speculation,  literature,  and  art,  and  because 
the  new  appeared  novel  and  barbarian  in  its  origin,  and 
humiliating  in  its  claims.  They  wrote,  they  lectured,  they  dis- 
puted, in  favour  of  the  temple  and  against  the  church,  because 
they  dreamed  of  the  days  of  Pericles  under  the  yoke  of  the 
Empire  :  not  because  they  worshipped  idols,  but  because  they 
worshipped  Plato. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  And  must  not  that  very  attempt,  noticed 
just  now,  to  recognise  all  religions,  have  been  as  fatal  to  them 
as  the  causes  you  mention  ? 

Atherton.  Certainly.  Mankind  does  not  require  a  revela- 
tion to  give  them  a  religion,  but  to  give  them  one  whicli  shall 
be  altogether  true.  These  Neo-Platonists  were  confronted  by 
a  rehjion  intolerant  of  all  others.     They  attempted,  by  keeping 

'   J.  Sim.?n,  i.  154  ;  ii.  173. 


g6  Tlie  Mysticism  of  t/ie  Nco-Platonists.        fn.  m 

open  house  in  their  eclectic  Pantheon,  to  excel  where  they 
thought  their  antagonist  deficient.  They  failed  to  see  in  that 
benign  intolerance  of  falsehood,  which  stood  out  as  so  strange 
a  characteristic  in  the  Christian  faith,  one  of  the  credentials  of 
its  divine  origin.  No  theory  of  the  universe  manufactured  by 
a  school  can  be  a  gospel  to  man's  soul.  They  forgot  that  lip- 
homage  paid  to  all  religions  is  the  virtual  denial  of  each. 

GowER.  Strange  position,  indeed,  maintaining  as  their  car- 
dinal doctrine  the  unity  and  immutability  of  the  divine  nature, 
and  entering  the  lists  as  conservators  of  polytheism  :  teaching 
the  most  abstract  and  defending  the  most  gross  conceptions  of 
deity  ;  exclaiming  against  vice,  and  solicitous  to  preserve  all 
the  incentives  to  it  which  swarm  in  every  heathen  mythology. 
Of  a  truth,  no  clean  thing  could  be  brought  out  of  that 
unclean, — the  new  cloth  would  not  mend  the  old  garment. 
Men  know  that  they  ought  to  worship  ;  the  question  is.  Whom  ? 
and  How  ? 

WiLLouGHBY.  Then,  again,  their  attempt  to  combine  religion 
and  philosophy  robbed  the  last  of  its  only  principle,  the  first  of 
its  only  power.  The  religions  lost  in  the  process  what  sanctity 
and  authoritativeness  they  had  to  lose,  while  speculation  aban- 
doned all  scientific  precision,  and  deserted  its  sole  consistent 
basis  in  the  reason.  This  endeavour  to  philosophise  superstition 
could  only  issue  in  the  paradoxical  product  of  a  philosophy 
U'ithout  reason,  and  a  superstition  without  faith.  To  make 
philosophy  superstitious  was  not  difficult,  and  they  did  that ; 
but  they  could  not — do  what  they  would — make  superstition 
philosophical. 

ArHKRTON.  Add,  too,  that  Greek  philosophy,  which  had 
always  repelled  the  people,  possessed  no  power  to  seclude  them 
from  the  Christianity  that  sought  them  out.  In  vain  did  it 
borrow  from  Christianity  a  new  refinement,  and  receive  some 
rays  of  light  from  the  very  foe  which  fronted  it 


.1  Ilcathcndoin  cannot  he  rescued.  97 


WiLLOUGHBY.  As  is  vcry  visible  in  the  higher  moral  tone  of 
rorph}Ty's  Treatise  on  Abstinence. 

Atherton.  The  struggles  of  heathendom  to  escape  its  doom 
only  the  more  display  its  weakness  and  the  justice  of  the 
sentence, 

GowER.  Like  the  man  in  the  Gesia  Roiianorum^  who  came 
to  the  gate  where  every  humpbacked,  one-eyed,  scald-headed 
passenger  had  to  pay  a  penny  for  each  infirmity  :  they  were 
going  only  to  demand  toll  for  his  hunch,  but  he  resisted,  and 
in  the  struggle  was  discovered  to  be  amenable  for  every  defor- 
mity and  disease  upon  the  table.  So,  no  doubt,  it  must  always 
be  with  systems,  states,  men,  and  dogs,  that  won't  know  when 
they  have  had  their  day.  The  scuftle  makes  sad  work  with  the 
patched  clothes,  false  teeth,  wig,  and  cosmetics. 

Atherton.  Life  is  sweet. 

As  to  Porphyry  it  was  doubtless  his  more  practical  tempera- 
ment that  led  him  to  modify  the  doctrine  of  Plotinus  concerning 
ecstasy.  With  Porphyry  the  mind  does  not  lose,  in  that  state 
of  exaltation,  its  consciousness  of  personality.  He  calls  it  a 
dream  in  which  the  soul,  dead  to  the  world,  rises  to  an  activity 
that  partakes  of  the  divine.  It  is  an  elevation  above  reason, 
above  action,  above  liberty,  and  yet  no  annihilation,  but  an 
ennobling  restoration  or  transformation  of  the  indi\idual 
nature." 

Gov/ER.  One  of  Porphyry's  notions  about  the  spirits  of 
the  air,  of  which  you  told  me  in  our  walk  yesterday,  quite 
haunted  me  afterwards.     It  contains  a  germ  of  poetry. 

Kate.  By  all  means  let  us  have  it. 

GowER.  Our  philosopher  believed  in  a  certain  order  of  evil 
genii  who  took  pleasure  in  hunting  wild  beasts, — daemons,  whom 
men  worshipped  by  the  title  of  Artemis  and  other  names, 
falsely  attributing  their  cruelty  to  the  calm  and  guiltless  gods, 

-  y.  Simon,  liv.  iii.  cliap.  4. 
VOL.  I.  H 


98  TJic  Mysticism  of  the  Nco-Platouists.         [n.  ni. 

who  can  never  delight  in  blood.  Some  of  these  natures  hunted 
another  prey.  They  were  said  to  chase  souls  that  had  escaped 
from  the  fetters  of  a  body,  and  to  force  them  to  re-enter  some 
fleshly  prison  once  more.  How  I  wish  we  could  see  a  design  of 
this  by  David  Scott !  Imagine  the  soul  that  has  just  leaped 
out  of  the  door  of  that  dungeon  of  ignorance  and  pain,  the  body, 
as  Porphyry  would  term  it,  fluttering  in  its  new  freedom  in  the 
sunshine  among  the  tree-tops,  over  wild  and  town — all  the  fields 
of  air  its  pleasure-ground  for  an  exulting  career  on  its  upward 
way  to  join  the  journeying  intelligences  in  their  cars  above. 
But  it  sees  afar  oft",  high  in  mid-air,  a  troop  of  dark  shapes ; 
they  seem  to  approach,  to  grow  out  of  the  airy  recesses  of  the 
distance — they  come  down  the  white  precipices  of  the  piled 
clouds,  over  the  long  slant  of  some  vapour  promontory — forms 
invisible  to  man,  and,  with  them,  spectre-hounds,  whose  baying 
spirits  alone  can  hear.  As  they  approach,  the  soul  recognises 
its  enemies.  In  a  moment  it  is  flying  away,  away,  and  after  it 
they  sweep — pursuers  and  pursued,  shapes  so  ethereal  that  the 
galleries  of  the  ant  are  not  shaken  as  hunters  and  quarry  glide 
into  the  earth,  and  not  a  foam-bell  is  broken  or  brushed  from  the 
wave  when  they  emerge  upon  the  sea,  and  with  many  a  winding 
and  double  mount  the  air.  At  last  hemmed  in,  the  soul  is 
forced — spite  of  that  desperate  sidelong  dart  which  had  all  but 
eluded  them — -down  into  a  body,  the  frame  of  a  beggar's  babe 
or  of  a  slave's  ;  and,  like  some  struggling  bird,  drawn  with  beat- 
ing wings  beneath  the  water,  it  sinks  into  the  clay  it  must 
animate  through  many  a  miserable  year  to  come. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  wish  you  would  paint  it  for  us  yourself. 
You  might  represent,  close  by  that  battle  of  the  spirits,  a  bird 
singing  on  a  bough,  a  labourer  looking  down,  with  his  foot  upon 
his  spade,  and  peasants  dancing  in  their  '  sunburnt  mirth'  and 
joUity — wholly  unconscious,  interrupted  neither  in  toil  nor 
pleasure  by  the  conflict  close  at  hand.     It  might  read  as  a 


0.  4-j  T/iL   Chase  of  a  Soul.  99 

satire  on  the  too  common  inditierence  of  men  to  the  sph-itual 
ir;i lilies  which  are  about  them  every  hour. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  The  picture  would  be  as  mysterious  as  an 
Emblem  by  Albert  Durer. 

GowER.  It  is  that  suggestiveness  I  so  admire  in  the  Germans. 
For  the  sake  of  it  I  can  often  pardon  their  fantastic  extrava- 
gances, their  incongruous  combinations,  their  frequent  want  OT 
grace  and  symmetry. 

Athertox.  So  can  I,  when  an  author  occupies  a  province  in 
which  such  indirectness  or  irony,  such  irregularity,  confusion,  or 
paradox,  are  admissible.  Take,  as  a  comprehensive  example, 
Jean  Paul.  But  in  philosophy  it  is  abominable.  There,  where 
transp-.u-ent  order  should  preside,  to  find  that  under  the  thick 
and  spreading  verbiage  meaning  is  often  lacking,  and,  with  all 
the  boastful  and  fire-new  nomenclature,  if  found,  is  old  and 
common,— that  the  language  is  commonly  but  an  array  of  what 
one  calls 

Rich  windows  tliat  exclude  th;  light, 
And  passages  that  lead  to  nothing  ; — 

This  ]Hits  me  out  of  all  patience. 

GowKR.  The  fault  you  object  to  reminds  me  of  some  Flen)ish 
landscape-pieces  I  have  seen ;  there  are  trees,  so  full  of  grand 
life,  they  seem  with  their  outstretched  arms  to  menace  the 
clouds,  and  as  though,  if  they  smote  with  their  many  hundred 
hands,  they  could  beat  away  the  storm  instead  of  being  bowed 
by  it ;  and  underneath  these  great  ones  of  the  forest,  which 
should  shadow  nothing  less  than  a  woodland  council  of  Titans 
or  a  group  of  recumbent  gods,  the  painter  places  only  a  rustic 
with  a  cow  or  two,  an  old  horse,  a  beggar,  or  some  other  most 
every-day  of  figures. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  And  you  mean  that  the  German  words  are 
large-looking  as  the  trees,  and  the  ideas  worn  and  ordinary  as 
the  figures  ?    What  will  Mr.  Willoughby  say  to  that  ? 

H  2 


I OD  The  Mysticisiii  of  iJie  Nco-Platoiiists.       [n.  m. 

Athertox.  I  think  Willoughby  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is 
high  time  that  we  should  go  back  lo  our  theurgic  mysticism  and 
lamblichus.     Here  is  a  letter  of  his  :^ 

Iamblichus  to  Agathoclks. 

I  assure  you,  my  friend,  that  the  efforts  of  Porphyry,  of 
■^^hom  you  appear  disposed  to  think  so  highly,  will  be  altogether 
in  vain.  He  is  not  the  true  philosopher  you  imagine.  He 
grows  cold  and  sceptical  with  years.  He  shrinks  with  a  timid 
incredulity  from  reaping  in  that  field  of  supernatural  attainment 
which  theurgy  has  first  opened,  and  now  continually  enlarges 
and  enriches.  Theurgy,  be  sure  of  it,  is  the  grand,  I  may  say, 
the  sole  path  to  the  exaltation  we  covet.  It  is  the  heaven-given 
organum,  in  the  hands  of  the  wise  and  holy,  for  obtaining  hap- 
piness, knowledge,  power. 

The  pomp  of  emperors  becomes  as  nothing  in  comparison 
with  the  glory  that  surrounds  the  hierophant.  The  priest  is  a 
prophet  full  of  deity.  The  subordinate  powers  of  the  upper 
world  are  at  his  bidding,  for  it  is  not  a  man,  but  a  god  who 
speaks  the  words  of  power.  Such  a  man  lives  no  longer  the 
life  common  to  other  men.  He  has  exchanged  the  human  life 
for  the  divine.  His  nature  is  the  instrument  and  vehicle  of 
Deity,  who  fills  and  impels  him  (vpyayuy  rolg  tTriTyiovm  dso'tc.) 
Men  of  this  order  do  not  employ,  in  the  elevation  they  experi- 
ence, the  waking  senses  as  do  others  (ovte  kut  uiaQ^div  tyep- 
yovffii'  ovT£  lypi^yopaai).  They  have  no  purpose  of  their  own, 
no  mastery  over  themselves.  They  speak  wisdom  they  do  not 
understand,  and  their  faculties,  absorbed  in  a  divine  power, 
.become  the  utterance  of  a  superior  will. 

Often,  at  the  moment  of  inspiration,  or  when  the  afllatus  has 
■subsided,  a  fiery  Appearance  is  seen, — the  entering  or  departing 
Power.  Those  who  are  skilled  in  this  wisdom  can  tell  by  the 
character  of  this  glory  the  rank  of  the  divinity  who  has  seized 
.for  the  time  the  reins  of  the  mystic's  soul,  and  guides  it  as  he 


c.  4]  laviblichus — TJicurgy.  loi 

will.  Sometimes  the  body  of  the  man  subject  to  this  influence 
is  violently  agitated,  sometimes  it  is  rigid  and  motionless. 
In  some  instances  sweet  music  is  heard,  in  others,  discordant 
and  fearful  sounds.  The  person  of  the  subject  has  been  known 
to  dilate  and  tower  to  a  superhuman  height ;  in  other  cases,  it 
has  been  lifted  up  into  the  air.  Frequently,  not  merely  the 
ordinary  exercise  of  reason,  but  sensation  and  animal  life  would 
appear  to  have  been  suspended  ;  and  the  subject  of  the  afflatus 
has  not  felt  the  application  of  fire,  has  been  pierced  with  spits, 
cut  with  knives,  and  been  sensible  of  no  pain.  Yea,  often,  the 
more  the  body  and  the  mind  have  been  alike  enfeebled  by 
vigil  and  by  fasts,  the  more  ignorant  or  mentally  imbecile  a 
youth  may  be  who  is  brought  under  this  influence,  the  more 
freely  and  unmixedly  will  the  divine  power  be  made  manifest. 
So  clearly  are  these  wonders  the  work,  not  of  human  skill  or 
wisdom,  but  of  supernatural  agency  !  Characteristics  such  as 
these  I  have  mentioned,  are  the  marks  of  the  true  inspiration. 

Now,  there  are,  O  Agathocles,  four  great  orders  of  spiritual 
existence, — Gods,  Daemons,  Heroes  or  Demi-gods,  and  Souls. 
You  will  naturally  be  desirous  to  learn  how  the  apparition  of  a 
God  or  a  Daemon  is  distinguished  from  those  of  Angels,  Princi- 
palities, or  Souls.  Know,  then,  that  their  appearance  to  man 
corresponds  to  their  nature,  and  that  they  always  manifest 
themselves  to  those  who  invoke  them  in  a  manner  consonant 
with  their  rank  in  the  hierarchy  of  spiritual  natures.  The 
appearances  of  Gods  are  uniform  {[iovdhcT]),  those  of  Daemons 
various  (TroiiciXa).  The  Gods  shine  with  a  benign  aspect.  When 
a  God  manifests  himself,  he  frequently  appears  to  hide  sun  or 
moon,  and  seems  as  he  descends  too  vast  for  earth  to  con- 
tain. Archangels  are  at  once  awful  and  mild  ;  Angels  yet  more 
gracious  ;  Daemons  terrible.  Below  the  four  leading  classes  I 
have  mentioned  are  placed  the  malignant  Daemons,  the  Anti- 
gods  {avTideovc). 

Each  spiritual  order  has   gifts  of  its   own  to  bestow  on  the 


102  The  Mysticisvi  of  the  Ah-o-Platoiiists.        [n-  ni. 

initiated  who  evoke  them.  The  Gods  confer  health  of  body, 
power  and  purity  of  mind,  and,  in  short,  elevate  and  restore 
our  natures  to  their  proper  principles.  Angels  and  Archangels 
have  at  their  command  only  subordinate  bestowments. 
Daemons,  however,  are  hostile  to  the  aspirant, — afflict  both 
body  and  mind,  and  hinder  our  escape  from  the  sensuous. 
Principalities,  who  govern  the  sublunary  elements,  confer 
temporal  advantages.  Those  of  a  lower  rank,  who  preside  over 
matter  (uXira),  display  their  bounty  in  material  gifts.  Souls 
that  are  pure  are,  like  Angels,  salutary  in  their  influence.  Their 
appearance  encourages  the  soul  in  its  upward  efforts.  Heroes 
stimulate  to  great  actions.  All  these  powers  depend,  in  a  de- 
scending chain,  each  species  on  that  immediately  above  it. 
Good  Demons  are  seen  surrounded  by  the  emblems  of  blessing. 
Daemons  who  execute  judgment  appear  with  the  instruments  of 
punishment. 

There  is  nothing  unworthy  of  belief  in  what  you  have  been 
told  concerning  the  sacred  sleep,  and  divination  by  dreams.  I 
explain  it  thus  : — 

The  soul  has  a  twofold  life,  a  lower  and  a  higher.  In  sleep 
that  soul  is  freed  from  the  constraint  of  the  body,  and  enters, 
as  one  emancipated,  on  its  divine  life  of  intelligence.  Then,  as 
the  noble  faculty  which  beholds  the  objecis  that  truly  are— the 
objects  in  the  world  of  intelligence — stirs  within,  and  awakens 
to  its  power,  who  can  be  surprised  that  the  mind,  which  con- 
tains in  itself  the  principles  of  all  that  happens,  should,  in  this 
its  state  of  liberation,  discern  the  future  in  those  antecedent 
principles  which  will  make  that  future  what  it  is  to  be  ?  The 
nobler  part  of  the  soul  is  thus  united  by  abstraction  to  higher 
natures,  and  becomes  a  participant  in  the  wisdom  and  fore- 
knowledge of  the  Gods. 

Recotded  examples  of  this  are  numerous  and  well  authenti- 
cated ;  instances  occur,  too,  every  day.     Numbers  of  sick,  by 


c.  4.]  EncniacJimciits  of  Superstition.  103 

sleeping  in  the  temple  of  iEsculapius,  have  had  their  cure  re- 
vealed to  them  in  dreams  vouchsafed  by  the  god.  Would  not 
Alexander's  army  have  perished  but  for  a  dream  in  which 
Dionysus  pointed  out  the  means  of  safety  ?  Was  not  the  siege  of 
Aphutis  raised  through  a  dream  sent  by  Jupiter  Ammon  to  Lysan- 
der?    The  night-time  of  the  body  is  the  day-time  of  the  soul. 

What  I  have  now  said— with  little  method,  I  confess- sets 
before  you  but  a  portion  of  the  prerogatives  in  which  the 
initiated  glory.  There  is  much  behind  for  which  words  are 
too  poor.  I  have  written  enough,  I  am  sure,  to  kindle  your 
ambition,  to  bid  you  banish  doubt,  and  persevere  in  the 
aspirations  which  so  possessed  you  when  I  saw  you  last/ 
Farewell. 

GowER.  That  explanation  of  prophetic  dreams  and  the 
temple  sleep  is  very  curious  and  characteristic.  No  doubt  the 
common  phenomena  of  mesmerism  may  have  been  among 
the  sacred  secrets  preserved  by  the  priests  of  Egypt  and  of 
Greece. 

Kate.  The  preference  for  young  and  weakly  persons,  who 
would  possess  an  organization  more  susceptible  of  such  m- 
fluences,  makes  it  look  very  likely. 

Atherton.  Observe  how  completely  the  theurgic  element, 
with  lamblichus,  supersedes  the  theosophic.  In  the  process  of 
time  the  philosophical  principles  on  which  the  system  of 
Plotinus  rested  are  virtually  surrendered,  litde  by  little,  while 
divination  and  evocations  are  practised  with  increasing  credu- 
lity, and  made  the  foundation  of  the  most  arrogant  pretensions. 
Plotinus  declared  the  possibility  of  an  absolute  identification 
of  the  divine  with  the  human  nature.  Here  was  the  broadest 
basis  for  mysticism  possible.  Porphyry  retired  from  this  posi- 
tion, took  up  narrower  ground,  and  qualified  the  great  mystical 
3  See  Note,  p.  io6. 


104  Ths  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platonists.         \v,.  m. 

principle  of  his  master.  He  contended  that  in  the  union  which 
takes  place  in  ecstasy,  we  still  retain  the  consciousness  of  per- 
sonality, lamblichus,  the  most  superstitious  of  all  in  practice, 
diminished  the  real  principle  of  mysticism  still  farther  in  theory. 
He  denied  that  man  has  a  faculty  inaccessible  to  passion,  and 
eternally  active.* 

WiLLOUGHEY.  And  so  the  metaphysics  and  the  marvels  of 
mysticism  stand  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  each  other.  But  it  is 
not  unnatural  that  as  the  mystic,  from  one  cause  or  another, 
gives  up  those  exaggerated  notions  of  the  powers  of  man  and 
those  mistaken  views  of  the  relationship  between  man  and 
God,  which  went  together  to  make  up  a  mystical  system  of 
philosophy,  he  should  endeavour  to  indemnify  himself  by  the 
evocations  of  theurgy,  so  as  to  secure,  if  possible,  through 
a  supernatural  channel,  what  speculation  had  unsuccessfully 
attempted. 

Atherton.  True ;  but  in  this  case  I  should  invert  the  order, 
and  say  that  as  the  promise  of  theurgy  exercised  an  attraction 
of  growing  strength  on  an  order  of  mind  less  fitted  for  specu- 
lation, such  temperaments  would  readily  drop  the  speculative 
principle  of  mysticism  in  their  eagerness  to  grasp  the  illusive 
prize — apparently  so  practical — which  a  commerce  with  superior 
natures  held  out. 

WiLLOUGiir.Y,  And  so  the  intellectual  ambition  and  the 
poetical  spirit,  so  lofty  in  Plotinus,  subside,  among  the  followers 
of  lamblichus,  into  tiie  doggrel  of  the  necromancer's  charm. 

GowER.  Much  such  a  descent  as  the  glory  of  Virgil  has 
suffered,  whose  tomb  at  Pausilipo  is  now  regarded  by  the  popu- 
lace of  degenerate  Naples  less  with  the  reverence  due  to  the 
poet  than  with  the  awe  which  arises  from  the  legendary  repute 
of  tlie  mediaeval  magician. 

Atherton.  So  the  idealism  of  strong  minds  becomes  super- 

"•  jfi/Jcs  Sii"oi/,  ij,  2i8. 


c.  4.]  Result — a  Blank.  105 

stition  in  the  weak.  In  the  very  shrine  where  culture  paid  its 
homage  to  art  or  science,  feebleness  and  ignorance,  in  an 
age  of  decline,  set  up  the  image-worship  of  the  merely 
marvellous. 

Mrs.  Athf.rton.  I  think  you  mentioned  only  one  other  of 
these  worthies. 

Atherton.  Proclus.  He  is  the  last  great  name  among  the 
Neo-Platonists.  He  was  the  most  eclectic  of  them  all,  perhaps 
because  the  most  learned  and  the  most  systematic.  He  ela- 
borated the  trinity  of  Plotinus  into  a  succession  of  impalpable 
Triads,  and  surpassed  lamblichus  in  his  devotion  to  the  prac- 
tice of  theurgy.  Proclus  was  content  to  develop  the  school  in 
that  direction  which  lamblichus — (successful  from  his  very 
faults) — had  already  given  it.  With  Proclus,  theurgy  was  the 
art  which  gives  man  the  magical  passwords  that  carry  him 
through  barrier  after  barrier,  dividing  species  from  species  of 
the  upper  existences,  till,  at  the  summit  of  the  hierarchy,  he 
arrives  at  the  highest.  According  to  him,  God  is  the  Non-Being 
who  is  above  all  being.  He  is  apprehended  only  by  negation. 
When  we  are  raised  out  of  our  weakness,  and  on  a  level  with 
God,  it  seems  as  though  reason  were  silenced,  for  then  we  are 
above  reason.  We  become  intoxicated  with  God,  we  are  in- 
spired as  by  the  nectar  of  Olympus.  He  teaches  philosophy 
as  the  best  preparation  for  Quietism.  For  the  scientific  en- 
(|uirer,  toiling  in  his  research,  Proclus  has  a  (iod  to  tell  of, 
supreme,  almighty,  the  world-maker  and  governor  of  Plato. 
For  him  who  has  passed  through  this  labour,  a  God  known 
only  by  ecstasy — a  God  who  is  the  repose  he  gives— a  God  of 
whom  the  more  you  deny  the  more  do  you  affirm. 

WiLLOUGHiiv.  And  this  is  all !  After  years  of  austerity  and 
toil,  Proclus — the  scholar,  stored  with  the  opinions  of  the  past, 
surrounded  by  the  admiration  of  the  present — the  astronomer, 
the   geometrician,  the    pliilosopher, — learned    in   the  lore  of 


1 06  The  Mysticism  of  the  Neo-Platonists.        [b. 


symbols  and  of  oracles,  in  the  rapt  utterances  of  Orplieus  and 
of  Zoroaster— an  adept  in  the  ritual  of  invocations  among 
every  people  in  the  world — he,  at  the  close,  pronounces  Quietism 
the  consummation  of  the  whole,  and  an  unreasoning  contem- 
plation, an  ecstasy  which  casts  off  as  an  incumbrance  all  the 
knowledge  so  painfully  acquired,  the  bourne  of  all  the  journey. 
Mrs.  Atherton.  As  though  it  were  the  highest  glory  of 
man,  forgetting  all  that  his  enquiry  has  achieved,  hidden  away 
from  the  world, — to  gaze  at  vacancy,  inactive  and  infantine ; — 
to  be  like  some  peasant's  child  left  in  its  cradle  for  a  while  in 
the  furrow  of  a  field,  shut  in  by  the  little  mound  of  earth  on 
either  side,  and  having  but  the  blue  ?ether  above,  dazzling  and 
void,  at  which  to  look  up  with  smiles  of  witless  wonder. 

Note  to  page  103. 

lamilichiis  de  Mysicrils,  sect.  x.  cc.  r,  4,  6  ;  iii.  4,  8,  6,  24  ;  i.  5,  6  ; 
ii.  3  ;  iii.  31 ;  ii.  4,  6,  7  ;  iii.  i,  3.  These  passages,  in  the  order  given,  will 
be  found  to  correspond  with  the  opinions  expressed  in  the  letter  as  those  of 
lamblichus. 

The  genuineness  of  the  treatise  De  Mystcriis  has  been  called  in  question, 
but  its  antiquity  is  undoubted.  It  differs  only  in  one  or  two  very  trivial 
statements  from  the  doctrines  of  lamblichus  as  ascertained  from  other  sources, 
and  is  admitted  by  all  to  be  the  production,  if  not  of  lamblichus  himself,  of 
one  of  his  disciples,  probably  writing  under  his  direction.    Jules  Simon,  ii.  219. 

For  the  opinions  ascribed  to  Porphyry  in  this  letter,  see  his  Episiola  ad 
Anebonem,  passim.  He  there  proposes  a  series  of  difficult  questions,  and  dis- 
plays that  sceptical  disposition,  especially  concerning  the  pretensions  of  Theurgy, 
which  so  much  scandalized  lamblichus.  'J  heZ?(?  Mysteriis  is  an  elaborate  reply 
to  that  epistle,  under  the  name  of  Abammon. 

In  several  passages  of  the  De  Mysteriis  (ii.  11 ;  v.  i,  2,  ■:!,  7 ;  vi.  6)  lamblichus 
displays  much  anxiety  lest  his  zeal  for  Theurgy  should  lead  him  to  maintain 
any  position  inconsistent  with  the  reverence  due  to  the  gods.  He  was  closely 
pressed  on  this  weak  point  by  the  objections  of  F^orphyry.  {Ep.  ad  Aiiebon. 
5,  6.)  His  explanation  in  reply  is,  that  the  deities  are  not  in'reality  drawn 
down  by  the  mere  human  will  of  the  Theurgist,  but  that  man  is  raised  to  a 
participation  in  the  power  of  the  gods.  The  approximation  is  real,  but  the 
apparent  descent  of  divinity  is  in  fact  the  ascent  of  humanitv.  By  his  long 
course  of  preparation,  by  his  knowledge  of  rites  and  symbols,  of  potent  hymns, 
and  of  the  mysterious  virtues  of  certain  herbs  and  minerals,  the  Theurgist  is 
supposed  to  rise  at  last  to  the  rank  of  an  associate  witli  celestial  powers  ;  their 
knowledge  and  their  will  become  his,  and  he  controls  inferior  natures  with  tlie 
authority  of  the  gods  themselves. 

lamblichus  supposes,  moreover,  that  there  is  an  order  of  powers  in  the  world, 
irrational  and  undiscerning,  who  are  altogether  at  the  bidding  of  man  when 
by  threats  or  conjurations  he  chooses  to  compel  them.    De  Myst.  vi.  5. 


BOOK    THE    FOURTH 


MYSTICISM  IN  THE  GREEK  CHURCH 


CHAPTER  I. 

Questi  ordini  di  su  tutti  s'ammirano 
K  di  gill  vincon  si  che  verso  Iddio 
'liitti  tirati  sono  e  tutti  tirano. 

E  Dionisio  con  taiito  disio 
A  contemplar  qiiesti  ordini  si  mise, 
Clie  li  nomo  e  distiiise  com'  io.' 

Dantk. 

T/^ATE.  I  have  been  looking  at  the  pictures  in  Mrs. 
-*-^  Jameson's  Sacra/  and  Lr^cudary  Art,  of  those  strange 
creatures,  the  hermit  saints — the  Fathers  of  the  desert.  Only 
see  this  one,  what  a  mane  and  claws  !  The  two  lions 
digging  the  grave  there  are  own  brothers  to  the  holy  men 
themselves. 

Athertox.  Yet  they  claimed  powers  as  much  above  huma- 
nity as,  to  look  at  them,  you  would  think  tliem  beneath  it. 

GowER.   Religious  Nebuchadnezzars. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  No  shavclings,  at  any  rate,  like  the  smooth- 
faced sanctities  of  the  later  calendar. 

Atherton.  You  will  find  among  these  anchorites  almost  all 
the  wonder-working  pretensions  of  mediaeval  mysticism  in  full 
development,  thus  early  ; — the  discernment  of  spirits,  gift  of 
prophecy,  miraculous  powers  of  various  kinds,  ecstasy,  exorcism, 
t\:c.  ^-c.  I  should  take  St.  Antony  as  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
whole  class.' 

'All   tliese    orders    gaze   admiring  uitii  sucli  zeal  to  tiie  contemplation  of 

upward,  and  exert  an  influence  down-  them  that  he  named  and  distinguished 

ward   (each    on  that  immediately  be-  them  as  I  have  done, 

neath   ii),    so  that    they   all   together  -  At/iauasii  0pp.   Vita  S.  Antotni. 

reciprocally    draw    and     are    drawn  The  vision  alluded  to  is  related  p. 498. 
toward  God.     Dionysiiis  gave  himself 


1  10  J\lysiicisi/i  ill  tJw  Greek  Church.  [n.  iv. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Look,  here  is  his  picture  ;  there  he  stands, 
with  crutch  and  bell  and  pig. 

Atherton.  The  bell  denotes  his  power  over  evil  spirits, 
and  the  pig  the  vanquished  daemon  of  sensuality.  In  his  life, 
by  Athanasius,  there  is  a  full  account  of  his  battle  with  many 
daemons  in  the  shape  of  lions,  bulls,  and  bears.  He  passed 
twenty  years  in  an  old  castle  which  he  found  full  of  serpents. 
The  power  of  the  saint  expelled  those  unpleasant  aborigines. 
That  nose,  you  see  there,  was  supposed  to  possess  the  faculty 
of  detecting  by  its  miraculous  keenness  of  scent  the  proximity 
of  an  evil  spirit.  There  is  an  odour  of  iniquity,  you  must  know, 
as  well  as  an  odour  of  sanctity.  This  disposition  to  literalize 
metaphors  gave  currency  to  the  monkish  stories  of  after  times 
concerning  the  refreshing  fragrance  found  to  arise  from  the 
remains  of  disinterred  saints.  In  fact,  the  materialization  of 
the  spiritual,  or  what  passes  for  such,  is  the  characteristic  prin- 
ciple of  the  theurgic  mysticism  within  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church.  St.  Antony,  on  one  occasion,  sees  his  own  soul, 
separated  from  the  body,  carried  through  the  air. 

GowER.  A  striking  instance,  I  should  say,  of  the  objectivity 
of  the  subject. 

Atherton.  One  of  his  visions  is  not  without  grandeur.  The 
brethren  had  been  questioning  him  one  day  concerning  the 
state  of  departed  spirits.  The  following  night  he  heard  a  voice 
saying,  '  Antony,  get  up ;  go  out  and  look  !'  He  obeyed,  and 
saw  a  gigantic  figure,  whose  head  was  in  the  clouds,  and  whose 
outstretched  arms  extended  far  across  the  sky.  Many  souls 
were  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  endeavouring,  as  they  found 
opportunity,  to  fly  upward  past  this  dreadful  being.  Numbers 
of  them  he  seized  in  the  attempt,  and  dashed  back  upon  the 
earth.  Some  escaped  him  and  exulted  above,  while  he  raged 
at  their  success.  Thus  sorrowing  and  rejoicing  Avere  mingled 
together,    as    some  were    defeated    and    others    triumphant. 


c.  I.]  TJtc  Pscndo-Dioiiysin^.  1  i  t 

This,  he  was  given  to  understand,  was  the  rise  and  fail 
of  souls. 

WiLLOUGHBV.  That  picture  would  be  really  Dantesque,  if 
only  a  little  more  definite.  Macarius  is  another  great  name, 
too,  among  these  Christian  ascetics  and  theurgists — the  one 
who  retired  to  the  deserts  of  Nitriain  the  fourth  century. 

Atherton.  He  is  not  only  famous  for  his  measure  of  the 
supernatural  powers  ascribed  to  his  brethren,  but  his  homilies 
have  been  appealed  to  by  modern  theopathetic  mystics  as  an 
authority  for  Quietism.  He  teaches  perfectionist  doctrine, 
certainly,  but  I  do  not  think  his  words  will  bear  the  construc- 
tion Poiret  and  others  would  give  thera.  He  was  at  least 
innocent  of  the  sainte  iiuUjfereuce!' 

Mrs.  Atherton.  You  said  we  were  to  discuss  Dionysiiis  the 
Areopagite  this  evening. 

Kate.  Pray  introduce  me  first.     I  know  nothing  about  him. 

Atherton.  No  one  does  know  who  really  wrote  the  books 
which  passed  under  that  name.  It  is  generally  admitted  that 
the  forgery  could  not  have  been  committed  earlier  than  the 
middle  of  the  fifth  century,  probably  somewhat  later.  So  all  I 
can  tell  you  is,  that  somewhere  or  other  (it  is  not  unlikely  at 
Constantinople,  but  there  is  no  certainty),  about  the  time  when 
Theodoric  was  master  of  Italy — when  the  Vandal  swarms  had 
not  yet  been  expelled  from  northern  Africa — while  Constanti- 
nople was  in  uproar  between  the  greens  and  the  blues,  and 
rival  ecclesiastics  headed  city  riots  with  a  rabble  of  monks, 
artizans,  and  bandit  soldiery  at  their  heels — while  orthodoxy 
was  grappling  with  the  Monophysite  and  Eutychian  heresies  on 

^  Poiret,    DibViothcca    Mysthorum,  to  be  impenetrable  by  the  divine  radi- 

p.   95.      Macarius  gives  great  promi-  ance.     Some  centuries   later  we   find 

r.eiice   to   the    doctrine    of    Union — -  the  monks  of  Mount  Athos  professing 

describes   the    streaming    in    of    the  to  discern  this  supernatural  effulgence 

Hypostatic  Light — how   the  spiritual  illuminating    their    stomachs.     Gass, 

nature  is  all-pervaded   by  tlie  glory,  Die  Mystik  des  N.  Cabasiias,  p.  56. 
and  even  the  body  is  not  so  «ro5s  as 


1  1  2  Llysiicisiii  in  the  Greek  Church.  [c.  iv. 

either  hand,  and  the  leHgious  world  was  rocking  still  with  the 
groundswell  that  followed  those  stormy  synods  in  which 
Palestine  and  Alexandria,  Asia  and  Constantinople,  from 
opposite  quarters,  gathered  their  strength  against  each  other 
■ — a  monk  or  priest  was  busy,  in  his  quiet  solitude,  with  the 
fabrication  of  sundry  treatises  and  letters  which  were  to  find 
their  way  into  the  Church  under  the  ail-but  apostolic  auspices 
of  that  convert  made  by  the  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  when  he 
spoke  on  Mars  Hill.  The  writings  would  seem  to  have  been 
first  appealed  to  as  genuine  in  the  year  533.  As  heretics  cited 
them,  their  authority  was  disputed  at  the  outset ;  but  being 
found  fiivourable  to  the  growing  claims  of  the  hierarchy,  and 
likely  to  be  useful,  they  were  soon  recognised  and  employed 
accordingly." 

WiLLOUGHP.v.  Proclus  could  not  have  been  long  dead,  and 
his  reputation  must  have  been  still  at  its  height,  when  this 
anonymous — let  us  call  him  Dionysius  at  once — was  writing 
his  Platonizcd  theology. 

Atherton'.  With  the  divines  of  Byzantium  Proclus  repre- 
sented the  grand  old  world  of  Greek  thought.  Even  those  who 
wrote  against  him  as  a  heathen  betray  the  influence  he  exercised 
on  their  doctrines.  The  object  of  Dionysius  evidently  was  to 
accommodate  the  theosophy  of  Proclus  to  Christianity.  Another 
aim,  not  less  conspicuous,  was  to  strengthen  all  the  pretensions 
of  the  priesthood,  and  to  invest  with  a  new  traditionary  sanction 
the  asce  ic  virtues  of  the  cloister. 

'  In  the  year  533  the  books  of  Diony-  sins  nor  Cyril  had  made  any  allusion 

sius  were  cited  i)y  the  Severiaiis,  and  to    them.      Acta    Concil.    Hard.    ii. 

their  genuineness  called    in    qu' stion  p.  1159. 
by  the  bishop  bjcause  neitlier  Athana- 


CHAPTER  II. 

Tliey  that  pretend  to  these  heights  call  them  the  secrets  of  the  kingdom  ; 
/lit  they  are  such  which  no  man  can  describe  ;  such  which  God  hath  not  re- 
vealed in  tiie  publication  of  the  Gospel  ;  such  for  the  acquiring  of  which  there 
are  no  means  prescribed,  and  to  which  no  man  is  obliged,  and  which  are  not 
in  any  man's  power  to  obtain  ;  nor  such  which  it  is  lawful  to  pray  for  or 
desire;  nor  concerning  which  we  shall  ever  be  called  to  account.— J  EKE  MV 
'I'avlok. 

*  T  HAVE  here,'  said  Atherton  on  the  next  evening,  '  some 
notes  on  the  doctrine  of  this  pretended  Areopagite — a 
short  summary  ;  shall  I  read  it  ?' 

'  By  all  means.' 

So  the  following  abstract  was  listened  to — and  with  creditable 
patience.' 

(i.)  All  tilings  have  emanated  from  (iod,  and  the  end  of  all 
is  return  to  God.  Such  return — deification,  he  calls  it — is 
the  consummation  of  the  creature,  that  God  may  finally  be  all 
in  all.  A  process  of  evolution,  a  centrifugal  movement  in  the 
Divine  Nature,  is  substituted  in  reality  for  creation.  The  ani- 
thesis  of  this  is  the  centripetal  process,  or  movement  of  involu- 

1  For  the    passages  authenticating  thus: — '  In  a  word,  good  springs  from 

this  account,    see  Dion.   Areop.   0pp.  the  sole  and  complete  cause,   but  evil 

as  follows  : —  from  many  and  partial  defects.     God 

(r.)  De  Div.  Nam.  c.  iv.  §  i  ;  v.  3,  knows  the  evil  as  good,  and  with  him 

6,  8  ;  vi.  2,   3  ;  i.    i.     De  Eccl.  II wr.  the  causes  of  things  evil  are  beneficent 

i.  3.  powers.'     Proclus   seeks  escape  from 

(2.)  De  Cal.  Hicr.  i.  2,  3  ;    v.  3.  4  ;  the  hopjless  difticulty  in  precisely  tiie 

vii.     De  Eccl.   Hicr.  i.  i  ;  x.  3.     The  same  way. 

resemblance  of  this  whole  process  to  Concerning  the  Via   tiegii/iva   and 

the   Proodos  and  Epistrophe  of  Pic-  affirma/iva,   see  De  Div.   Nam.  i.  i, 

timus  is  sufficiently  obvious.  5,  4  ;  /^d?  Ccel.  Hier.  .\v.  ;  wi^De  Myst, 

(3.)  De  Div.   Norn.  iv.  20,  p.  4S8.  Theol.  i.  2,  3. 

The  chase  after  evil  runs  througii  sec-  (4.)  Ibid.   Also,  Ft.  ad.  Dorothcum 

tions  24-34.     He  sums  up  in  one  place  Dc  Myst.  Theol.  iii  pp.  ,714.  721. 

Vol.  1.  I 


114  Mysticism  in  the  Greek  Church.  [b. 


tion,  which  draws  all  existence  towards  the  point  of  the  Divine 
centre.  The  degree  of  real  existence  possessed  by  any  being- 
is  the  amount  of  God  in  that  being — for  God  is  the  existence  in 
all  things.  Yet  He  himself  cannot  be  said  to  exist,  for  he  is 
above  existence.  The  more  or  less  of  God  which  the  various 
creatures  possess  is  determined  by  the  proximity  of  their  order 
to  the  centre. 

(2.)  The  chain  of  being  in  the  upper  and  invisible  world, 
through  which  the  Divine  Power  diftuses  itself  in  successive 
gradations,  he  calls  the  Celestial  Hierarchy.  The  Ecclesiastical 
Hierarchy  is  a  corresponding  series  in  the  visible  world.  The 
orders  of  Angelic  natures  and  of  priestly  functionaries  corre- 
spond to  each  other.  The  highest  rank  of  the  former  receive 
illumination  immediately  from  God.  The  lowest  of  the  heavenly 
imparts  divine  light  to  the  highest  of  the  earthly  hierarchy. 
Each  order  strives  perpetually  to  approximate  to  that  imme- 
diately above  itself,  from  which  it  receives  the  transmitted  in- 
fluence ;  so  that  all,  as  Dante  describes  it,  draw  and  are  drawn, 
and  tend  in  common  towards  the  centre — God. 

The  three  triads  of  angelic  existences,  to  whom  answer  the 
ranks  of  the  terrestrial  hierarchy,  betrays  the  influence  of  Proclus, 
whose  hierarchy  of  ideas  corresponds,  in  a  similar  manner,  to 
his  hierarchy  of  hypostases. 

GowER.  The  system  reminds  one  of  those  old  pictures  whicli 
are  divided  into  two  compartments,  the  upper  occupied  by 
angels  and  cherubs  on  the  clouds,  and  the  lower  by  human 
beings  on  the  earth,  gazing  devoutly  upward  at  their  celestial 
benefactors. 

Atherton.  The  work  of  Christ  is  thrown  into  the  back- 
ground to  make  room  for  the  Church.  The  Saviour  answers, 
with  Dionysius,  rather  to  the  Logos  of  the  Platonist  than  to 
the  Son  of  God  revealed  in  Scripture.  He  is  allowed  to  be,  as 
incarnate,  the  founder  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Hierarchy  ;  but,  as 


2.]  TJic  Hierarchies.  i  i  5 


such,  he  is  removed  from  men  by  the  long  chain  of  priestly 
orders,  and  is  less  the  Redeemer,  than  remotely  the  liluminator, 
of  the  species. 

Purification,  illumination,  perfection,— the  three  great  stages 
of  ascent  to  God  (which  plays  so  important  a  part  in  almost 
every  succeeding  attempt  to  systematise  mysticism)  are  mys- 
tically represented  by  the  three  sacraments,  —  Baptism,  the 
Eucharist,  and  Unction.  The  Church  is  tlie  great  Mysta- 
gogue  :  its  liturgy  and  offices  a  profound  and  elaborate  system 
of  symbolism. 

(3.)  The  Greek  theory,  with  its  inadequate  conception  of  the 
nature  of  sin,  compels  Uionysius  virtually  to  deny  the  existence 
of  evil.  Everything  that  exists  is  good,  the  more  existence  the 
more  goodness,  so  that  evil  is  a  coming  short  of  existence.  He 
hunts  sin  boldly  from  place  to  place  throughout  the  universe, 
and  drives  it  at  last  into  the  obscurity  of  the  limbo  he  contrives 
for  it,  where  it  lies  among  things  unreal. 

All  that  exists  he  regards  as  a  symbolical  manifestation  of 
the  super-existent.  What  we  call  creation  is  the  divine  allegory. 
In  nature,  in  Scripture,  in  tradition,  God  is  revealed  only  in 
figure.  This  sacred  imagery  should  be  studied,  but  in  such 
sttdy  we  are  still  far  from  any  adequate  cognizance  of  the 
Divine  Nature.  God  is  above  all  negation  and  affirmation  :  in 
Him  such  contraries  are  at  once  identified  and  transcended. 
But  by  negation  we  approach  most  nearly  to  a  true  apprehension 

of  what  He  is. 

Negation  and  affirmation,  accordingly,  constitute  the  two 
opposed  and  yet  simultaneous  methods  he  lays  down  for  the 
knowledge  of  the  Infinite.  These  two  paths,  the  Via  Negativa 
(or  Apophatica)  and  the  Via  Affinnativa  (or  Cataphatica)^  con- 
stitute the  foundation  of  his  mysticism.  They  are  distinguished 
and  elaborated  in  every  part  of  his  writings.  The  positive  is 
the  descending  process.     In  the  path  downward  from  God, 


I  2 


1 1 6  Mysticism  in  tJie  Greek  CJuirch.  [b.  iv, 

through  interior  existences,  tlie  Divine  Being  may  be  said  to 
have  many  names  ; — the  negative  method  is  one  of  ascent ;  in 
that,  God  is  regarded  as  nameless,  the  inscrutable  Anonymous. 
The  symbolical  or  visible  is  thus  opposed,  in  the  Platonist  style, 
to  the  mystical  or  ideal.  To  assert  anything  concerning  a 
God  who  is  above  all  affirmation  is  to  speak  in  figure,  to  veil 
him.  The  more  you  deny  concerning  Him,  the  more  of  such 
veils  do  you  remove.  He  compares  the  negative  method  of 
speaking  concerning  the  Supreme  to  the  operation  of  the  sculp- 
tor, who  strikes  off"  fragment  after  fragment  of  the  marble,  and 
progresses  by  diminution. 

(4.)  Our  highest  knowledge  of  God,  therefore,  is  said  to  con- 
sist in  mystic  ignorance.  Jn  omni-nescience  we  approach  Om- 
niscience. This  Path  of  Negation  is  the  highway  of  mysticism. 
It  is  by  refraining  from  any  exercise  of  the  intellect  or  of  the 
imagination — by  self- simplification,  by  withdr&wal  into  the 
inmost,  the  divine  essence  of  our  nature — that  we  surpass  the 
ordinary  condition  of  humanity,  and  are  united  in  ecstasy  with 
God.  Dionysius  does  not  insist  so  much  on  Union  as  the  later 
mystics,  but  he  believes,  at  all  events,  that  the  eminent  saint 
may  attain  on  earth  an  indescribable  condition  of  soul — an 
elevation  far  transcending  the  reach  of  our  natural  faculties — 
an  approach  towards  the  beatific  vision  of  those  who  are  sup- 
posed to  gaze  directly  on  the  Divine  Essence  in  heaven.  His 
disciple  is  perpetually  exhorted  to  aspire  to  this  climax  of 
abstraction — above  sight,  and  thought,  and  feeling,  as  to  the 
highest  aim  of  man. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  What  Contradictions  are  here!  With  one 
breath  he  extols  ineffable  ignorance  as  the  only  wisdom  ;  with 
the  next  he  pretends  to  elucidate  the  Trinity,  and  reads  you  oft' 
u  muster-roll  of  the  heavenly  hierarchies. 

GowER.  And  are  not  these,  sui)plemented  by  the  hierarchy 
of  ecclesiastics,   his  real  objects  of  worship?     No  man  could 


c.  2.]  Tumid  and  tedious  Style.  l  i  7 

make  an  actual  God  of  that  super-essential  ultimatum,  that 
blank  Next-to-Nothingness  which  the  last  Neo-Platonists 
iu'iagincd  as  their  Supreme.  Proclus  could  not ;  Dionj-sius 
could  not.  What  then  ?  A  reaction  comes,  which,  after  re- 
fining polytheism  to  an  impalpable  unity,  restores  men  to 
polytheism  once  more.  Up  mounts  speculation,  rocket-like  : 
men  watch  it,  a  single  soaring  star  with  its  train  of  fire,  and,  at 
the  height,  it  breaks  into  a  scattering  shower  of  many-coloured 
sparks.  From  that  Abstraction  of  which  nothing  can  be  predi- 
cated, nothing  can  be  expected.  The  figment  above  being  is 
above  benignity  So  the  objects  of  invocation  are  gods,  demi- 
gods, daemons,  heroes  ;  or,  when  baptized,  cherubim,  seraphim, 
thrones,  dominions,  powers,  archangels,  angels,  saints  ;  in  either 
case,  whether  at  Athens  or  at  Constantinople,  the  excessive 
subtilisation  of  the  One  contributes  toward  the  worship  of  the 
Manifold. 

Atherton.  The  theology  of  the  Neo-Platonists  was  always 
in  the  first  instance  a  mere  matter  of  logic.  It  so  happened 
that  they  confounded  Universals  with  causes.  The  miserable 
consequence  is  clear.  The  Highest  becomes  with  them,  as 
he  is  with  Dionysius,  merely  the  most  comprehensive,  the 
universal  idea,  which  includes  the  world,  as  genus  includes 
species.'^ 

Mrs.  Atherton.  The  divinity  of  this  old  Father  must  be  a 
bleak  aftair  indeed— Christianity  frozen  out. 

Gower.  I  picture  him  to  myself  as  entering  with  his  philo- 
sophy into  the  theological  structure  of  that  day,  like  Winter 
into  the  cathedral  of  the  woods  (which  an  autumn  of  decline 
has  begun  to  harm  already) ; — what  life  yet  lingers,  he  takes 
away, — he  untwines  the  garlands  from  the  pillars  of  the  trees, 

-See  Meier,  '  Dionysii  Arcop.  el  '  causae  ad  Causatum  iclatioiicm  cum 
Mysticorumsaatliyiw.  doctriiicB  inter  relatione  generis  ad  spccicni  con- 
ie  comparantur.'     He  remarks    justly      fudit  '  p    i^. 


1 1 8  Mysticism  in  tJic  Grcsk  Church.  [n.  w, 

extinguishes  the  many  twinkling  liglits  the  sunshine  hung 
wavering  in  the  foliage,  silences  all  sounds  of  singing,  and 
fills  the  darkened  aisles  and  dome  with  a  coldly-descending 
mist,  whose  silence  is  extolled  as  above  the  power  of  utterance, 
— its  blinding,  chill  obscureness  lauded  as  clearer  than  the 
intelligence  and  warmer  than  the  fervour  of  a  simple  and  scrip- 
tural devotion. 

Atherton.  You  have  described  my  experience  in  reading 
him,  though  I  must  say  he  suggested  nothing  to  me  about  your 
cathedral  of  the  woods,  &c.  His  verbose  and  turgid  style,  too, 
is  destitute  of  all  genuine  feeling.'  He  piles  epithet  on  epithet, 
throws  superlative  on  superlative,  hyperbole  on  hyperbole,  and 
it  is  but  log  upon  log, — he  puts  no  fire  under,  neither  does  any 
come  from  elsewhere.  He  quotes  Scripture — as  might  be  ex- 
pected— in  the  worst  style,  both  of  the  schoolman  and  the 
mystic.  Fragments  are  torn  from  their  connexion,  and  carried 
away  to  sufter  the  most  arbitrary  interpretation,  and  strew  his 
pages  that  they  may  appear  to  illustrate  or  justify  his  theory. 

GovvER.  How  forlorn  do  those  texts  of  Scripture  look  that 
you  discern  scattered  over  the  works  of  such  writers,  so  mani- 
festly transported  from  a  region  of  vitality  and  warmth  to  an 
expanse  of  barrenness.  They  make  the  context  look  still 
more  sterile,  and  while  they  say  there  must  be  life  somcivhcre^ 
seem  to  aftirm,  no  less  emphatically,  that  it  is  not  in  the 
neighbourhood  about  them.  They  remind  me  of  those  leaves 
from  the  chestnut  and  the  birch  I  once  observed  upon  a  glacier. 
There  they  lay,  foreign  manifestly  to  the  treeless  world  in  which 
they  were  found  ;  the  ice  appeared  to  have  shrunk  from  them, 
and  they  from  the  ice ;  each  isolated  leaf  had  made  itself  a 
cup-like  cavity,  a  tiny  open  sarcophagus  of  crystal,  in  which  it 

3  The  hyper  and  the  a  privative  are  tives  march  pompously,  attended  by  a 

in  constant  requisition  with  Dionysius.  hyper  on  one  side,  and  a  superlative 

He  cannot  suffer  any  ordinary  epithet  termination  on  the  other. 
to  go  alone,  and  many  of  his  adjec- 


c.  2-1  Dionysiiis  the  hero  of  JJysiitisiii.  i  IQ 

had  lain,  peiliaps  for  several  winters.  Doubtless,  ca  tempest, 
^^\^^c\^  had  been  vexing  some  pleasant  valley  far  down  beneath, 
and  tearing  at  its  trees,  must  have  whirled  them  up  thither. 
Yet  the  very  presence  of  the  captives  reproached  the  poverty 
of  the  Snow-King  who  detained  them,  testifying  as  they  did  to 
a  o-enial  clime  elsewhere,  whose  products  that  ice-world  could 
no'' more  put  forth,  than  can  such  frozen  speculations  as  this  of 
Dionysius,  the  ripening  '  fruits  of  the  Spirit.' 

WiLLOUGHBY.  His  lurking  fatalism  and  his  pantheism  were 
forgiven  him,  no  doubt,  on  consideration  of  his  services  to 
priestly  assumption.  He  descends  from  his  most  cloudy 
abstraction  to  assert  the  mysterious  significance  and  divine 
potency  of  all  the  minuti»  of  the  ecclesiastical  apparatus  and 
the  sacerdotal  etiquette.  What  a  reputation  these  writings  had 
throughout  the  middle  age  ! 

Atherton.  Dionysius   is  the  mythical  hero  of  mysticism. 

You  find   traces  of  him   everywhere.     Go   almost  where  you 

will  through  the  writings  of  the  mediaeval  mystics,  into  their 

depths  of  nihilism,  up  their  heights  of  rapture  or  of  speculation, 

through  their  over-growth  of  fancy,  you  find  his  authority  cited, 

his  words  employed,  his  opinions  more  or  less  fully  transmitted, 

somewhat  as  the  traveller  in  the  Pyrenees  discerns  the  fame  of 

the  heroic   Roland  still  preserved  in  the  names  and  m  the 

legends  of  the  rock,  the  valley,  or  the  flower.     Passages  from 

tl-Te  Areopagite  were  culled,  as  their  warrant  and  their  insignia, 

by  the  priestly  ambassadors  of  mysticism,  with  as  much  care 

and   reverence  as  the  sacred  verbena  that  grew  within  the 

enclosure  of  the  Capitoline  by  the  Feciales  of  Rome. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  '  Oh,  sweet  Fancy,  let  her  loose,'  as  Keats 
says.  I  think  my  husband  has  been  learning  in  Mr.  Gower's 
school.     How  far  he  went  to  fetch  that  simile  ! 

GowER.  Perhaps  he  has  my  excuse  in  this  case,  that  he 
could  not  help  it. 


120  Mysticism  in  tlte  Greek  Church.  [n.  iv. 

WiLLouGHBV.  Or  he  niay  at  cnce  boldly  put  in  the  plea  of 
Sterne,  who  in  one  place  lays  claim  to  the  gratitude  of  his 
readers  for  having  voyaged  to  fetch  a  metaplior  all  the  way  to 
the  Guinea  coast  and  back. 

Atherton.  It  contributed  greatly  to  the  inlluence  of  the 
Areopagite  that  he  became  confounded  with  the  Dionysius,  or 
St.  Denys,  who  was  adopted  as  the  patron-saint  of  France. 

Kate.  A  singular  fortune,  indeed  :  so  that  he  was  two  other 
people  besides  himself ;— like  Mrs.  Malaprop's  Cerberus,  three 
gentlemen  at  once. 

GowER.  I  think  we  have  spent  time  enough  upon  him. 
Grievously  do  1  pity  the  miserable  monks  his  commentators, 
whose  minds,  submerged  in  the  mare  tcnebrosum  of  the  cloister, 
had  to  pass  a  term  of  years  in  the  mazy  arborescence  of  his 
verbiage, — like  so  many  insects  within  their  cells  in  the  branches 
of  a  great  coral.'' 

Atherton.  Don't  throw  away  so  much  good  compassion, 
I  dare  say  it  kept  them  out  of  mischief. 

WiLLouGHBY.  I  Cannot  get  that  wretched  abstraction  out  of 
my  head  which  the  Neo-Platonists  call  deity.  How  such  a 
notion  must  have  dislocated  all  their  ethics  from  head  to  foot ! 
The  merest  anthropomorpliism  had  been  better ; — ^yes,  Homer 
and  Hesiod  are  truer,  after  all. 

Atherton.  I  grant  the  gravity  of  the  mischief.  But  we 
must  not  be  too  hard  on  this  ecclesiastical  Neo-Platonism.  It 
does  but  follow  Aristotle  here.  You  remember  he  considers 
the  possession  of  virtues  as  quite  out  of  the  question  in  the 
case  of  the  gods. 

Gower.  Is  it  possible?  Why,  that  is  as  though  a  man 
should  lame  himself  to  run  the  faster.     Here  is  a  search  after 

■♦  Tlie  later  Greek  theology  modified      to   reverence   Mm    as  a  Pather.     See 
the    most  objectionable   parts   of  the      Ullmann's  Nicholas  von  Methone. 
Dionysian  doctrine,  while  continuing 


\ 


c.  2]  Huiiian   Virtue  and  supcihuinan.  12  1 

God,  in  which,  at  starting,  all  moral  qualities  are  removed  from 
him  ;  so  that  the  testimony  of  conscience  cannot  count  for  any- 
thing ;— the  inward  directory  is  sealed  ;  the  clue  burnt.  Truly 
the  world  by  wisdom  knew  not  God  ! 

WiLLOUGHBY.  This  unquestionably  is  the  fatal  error  of 
Greek  speculation— the  subordination  of  morals  to  the  intellec- 
tual refinements  of  an  ultra-human  spiritualism.  Even  with 
Numenius  you  have  to  go  down  the  scale  to  a  subordinate  god 
or  hypostasis  before  you  arrive  at  a  deity  who  condescends  to 
be  good. 

GowER.  How  much  '  salt'  there  must  still  have  been  in  the 
medireval  Christianity  to  survive,  as  far  as  it  did,  the  reception 
of  these  old  ethical  mistakes  into  the  very  heart  of  its  doctrine  ! 

Atherton.  Aristotle  reasons  thus  :  how  can  the  gods  exhibit 
fortitude,  who  have  nothing  to  fear— justice  and  honesty,  with- 
out a  business—  temperance,  without  passions  ?  Such  insignifi- 
cant things  as  moral  actions  are  beneath  them.  They  do  not 
toil,  as  men.  They  do  not  sleep,  like  Endymion,  'on  the  Lat- 
niian  hill.'  What  remains  ?  They  lead  a  life  of  contemplation  ; 
— in  contemplative  energy  lies  their  blessedness.'  So  the  con- 
templative sage  who  energises  directly  toward  the  central  Mind 

the  intellectual  source  and  ultimatum,  is  the  true  imitator  of 

the  divine  perfections. 

GowER.  Transfer  this  principle  to  Christianity,  and  the  monk 
becomes  immediately  the  highest  style  of  man. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  you  have  a  double  morality  at  once  ; 
heroic  or  superhuman  virtues,  the  graces  of  contemplation  for 
the  saintly  few,— glorious  in  proportion  to  their  uselessncss ; 
and  ordinary  virtues  for  the  many, — social,  serviceable,  and 
secondary. 

Atherton.  Not  that  the  schoolman  would  release  his  saint 
altogether  from  the  obligations  of  ordinary  morality;  but  he 

»  Aristot.  luh.  \ic.  lib.  x.  c.  S.— Sec  Note,  Page  123. 


I.'? 2  Mysticism  in  the  Gnck   Clinrch.  (p.  iv. 

would  say,  this  ordinary  morality  does  not  fit  the  contemplatist 
for  heaven — it  is  but  a  preliminary  exercise— a  means  to  an  end, 
and  that  end,  the  transcendence  of  everything  creaturely,  a 
superhuman  exaltation,  the  ceasing  from  his  labours,  and 
swooning  as  it  were  into  the  divine  repose. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Then  I  must  put  in  a  word  for  our  mystics. 
It  is  not  they  who  corrupted  Christian  morals  by  devising  this 
divorce  between  the  virtues  of  daily  life  and  certain  other  virtues 
which  are  ?///human,  anti-terrestrial,  hypercreaturely — forgive 
the  word — they  drive  us  hard  for  language.  They  found  the 
separation  already  accomplished  ;  they  only  tilled  with  ardour 
the  plot  of  ground  freely  allotted  them  by  the  Church. 

Atherton.  Just  so  ;  in  this  doctrine  of  moral  dualism — the 
prolific  mother  of  mystics — Aquinas  is  as  far  gone  as  Bernard. 

GowER.  The  mention  of  Bernard's  name  makes  one  impa- 
tient to  get  away  from  the  Greek  Church,  westward. 

Atherton.  We  may  say  farewell  to  Byzantium  now.  'J'hat 
(jreek  Church  never  grew  beyond  what  it  was  in  the  eighth  and 
ninth  centuries. 

GowER.  I  have  always  imagined  it  a  dwarf,  watching  a 
Nibelungen  hoard,  which  after  all  never  enriches  anybody. 
Nothing  but  that  tedious  counting,  and  keeping  tidy,  and  stand- 
ing sentinel,  for  ages. 

Atherton.  See  what  good  a  little  fighting  does.  The  Greek 
Church  had  its  scholastic  element — witness  John  of  Damascus ; 
it  had  its  mystical — as  we  have  seen ;  but  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other  was  ever  developed  to  such  vigour  as  to  assert  itself 
against  its  rival,  and  struggle  for-mastery.  In  the  West  the 
two  principles  have  their  battles,  their  armistices,  their  recon- 
ciliations, and  both  are  the  better.  In  the  East  they  are  coupled 
amicably  in  the  leash  of  antiquity,  and  dare  not  so  much  as 
snarl. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  suppose  the  mysticism  of  the  Greek  Church 


2.]  Syinbolism  and  Individitalisin.  1  2 


was  more  objective,  as  the  Germans  would  say —dependent  on 
Its  sacramental  media  and  long  trains  of  angelic  and  human 
functionaries,  handing  down  illumination ;  that  of  the  West, 

subjective. 

Atherton.  That  will  be  generally  true.  The  eastern  mysti- 
cism creeps  under  the  sacerdotal  vestments,  is  never  known  to 
quit  the  precincts  of  church  and  cloister,  clings  close  to  the 
dalmatica,  and  lives  on  whiffs  of  frankincense.  The  western  is 
often  to  be  found  far  from  candle,  book,  and  bell,  venturing  to 
worship  without  a  priest. 

In  short,  as  Gower  would  antithetically  say,  the  mystic  of 
the  East  is  always  a  slave,  the  mystic  of  the  West  often  a  rebel ; 
Symbolism  is  the  badge  of  the  one,  Individualism  the  watch- 
word of  the  other. 

Gower.  How  spiteful  you  are  to-night,  Atherton.  I  pro- 
pose that  we  break  up,  and  hear  nothing  more  you  may  have 
to  say. 

NoTR  TO  Page  121. 

Aristotle  extols  contemplation,  because  it  does  not  require  means  and  oppor- 
tu5  y  as  do  the  social  virtues,  generosity,  courage,  .Vc  Plotmus  lays  .s^.ll 
r^ore  Stress  on  his  distinction  between  the  mere  pohtical  v.rtues-wh.ch  con- 
sul Uitesmply  a  preparatory,  purifying  process,  and  the^upenor,  or  exemplary- 
those  3e  attainments  whereby  man  is  united  with  God.  Aqumas  adopts 
Ws  class  ficltton,  and  distinguishes  the  virtues  as  exempLu-cs,  purgatonce  and 
this  ciassmcauoi  ,  ^  ^^^^  ^^  ^^^  cardmal  virtues  a 

Sntrmplath  e  and  afcetic  tur";  designating  Prudence,  in  its  highest  exercise. 
^conSmpt  for  all  things  worldly  ;  Temperance  ,s  abstraction  from  the  sen- 
suous Fordtude.  courage  in  sustaining  ourselves  in  the  aenal  regions  of  con- 
templation remote  from  the  objects  of  sense  ;  Justice,  the  absolute  surrender 
of  the  pk  t  to  this  law  of  its  aspiration.  He  argues  that,  as  mans  highest 
b  essedness  is  a  beatitude  surpassing  the  limits  of  human  nature,  he  can  be 
nrenared  fo  i?  only  by  having  added  to  that  nature  certain  pnnciples  from 
rte  Se  -such  principles  are  the  theological  or  superhuman  virtues  Faith 
Hone  a"  d' Charity  See  Miinschers  Do^mcngcschichtc,  2  Abth.  2  Absch.  §  136. 
In  ^o^  seem  -ncc  of  the  separation  thus  established  between  the  human  and 
the  divnel-^  shall  i^nd  the  mystics  of  the  fourteenth  century  representing 
regeneration  almost  as  a  process  of  dehumanization,  and  as  the  substitution  of 
a  1w  ne'  ature  for  the  human  in  the  subject  of  grace.  No  theologians  could 
have  been  further  removed  from  Pelagianism  ;  few  more  forgetful  than  these 
ard'nt  contemplatists  that  divine  influence  is  vouchsafed,  not  to  obliterate  and 


124  Mj'sficisin  in  the  Greek  CJiurch.  [n.  iv. 

supersede  our  n;itural  capacities  by  some  almost  miraculous  faculty,  but  to 
restore  and  elevate  inan's  nature,  to  realise  its  lost  possibilities,  and  to  conse- 
crate it  wholly,  in  body  and  soul — not  in  spirit,  merely — to  the  service  of  God. 

With  one  voice  both  schoolmen  and  mystics  would  reason  thus  : — '  Is  r.ot 
heaven  the  extreme  opposite  of  this  clouded,  vexed,  and  sensuous  life?  1  hen 
we  approach  its  blessedness  most  nearly  by  a  life  the  most  contrary  possible  to 
the  secular, — by  contemplation,  by  withdrawment,  by  total  abstraction  from 
sense, ' 

This  is  one  view  of  our  best  preparation  for  the  heavenly  world.  At  the 
opposite  pole  stands  Rehmen's  doctrine,  far  less  dangerous,  and  to  be  preferred 
if  we  must  have  an  extreme,  viz.,  that  the  believer  is  virtually  in  the  heavenly 
state  already— that  eternity  should  be  to  u-s  as  time,  and  time  as  eternity. 

Between  these  two  stands  the  scriptural  teaching.  ,St.  Paul  does  not  attempt 
to  persuade  himself  that  earth  is  henven,  that  faith  is  sight,  that  hope  is  fruition. 
He  groans  here,  being  burdened;  he  longs  to  have  done  with  shortcoming  and 
with  conflict  ;  to  enter  on  tl)e  vision  face  to  face,  on  the  unhindered  service  of 
the  state  of  glory.  But  he  does  not  deem  it  the  best  preparation  for  heaven  to 
mimic  upon  earth  an  imaginary  celestial  repose, — he  will  rather  labour  to-day 
hi?  utmost  at  the  work  to-day  may  bring, — lie  will  fight  the  good  fight,  he  wijj 
finish  his  course,  and  then  receive  the  crown. 


BOOK    THE    FIFTH 


MYSTICISM  IN  THE  LATIN  CHURCH 


CHAPTER  I. 

Look  up,  my  Ethel ! 
When  on  the  glances  of  the  upturned  eye 
The  plumed  thoughts  take  travel,  and  ascend 
Through  the  unfathomable  purple  mansions. 
Threading  the  golden  fires,  and  ever  climbing 
As  if  'twere  homewards  winging — at  such  time 
The  native  soul,  distrammelled  of  dim  earth, 
Doth  know  herself  immortal,  and  sits  light 
Upon  her  temporal  perch. 

VrOLENZIA. 

'X'HE  winter  had  now  broken  up  his  encampment,  and  was 
already  in  full  retreat.  With  the  approach  of  spring  the 
mystical  conversations  of  our  friends  entered  on  the  period  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  The  lengthening  mornings  found  Atherton 
early  at  his  desk,  sipping  a  solitary  and  preliminary  cup  of 
coffee,  and  reading  or  writing.  Willoughby  felt  his  invention 
quickened  by  the  season,  and  a  new  elasticity  pervade  him.  His 
romance  advanced  with  fewer  hindrances  from  that  cross-grained 
dissatisfaction  which  used  so  frequently  to  disfigure  his  manu- 
script with  the  thorny  scratches  and  interlineations  of  an 
insatiable  correction. 

Gower,  too,  could  enter  once  more  on  the  enjoyment  of  his 
favourite  walk  before  breakfast.  In  wandering  through  the 
dewy  meadows,  in  '  the  slanting  sunlight  of  the  dawn,'  he  felt, 
as  we  all  must,  that  there  is  truth  in  what  the  chorus  of  mystics 
have  ever  said  or  sung  about  the  inadequacy  of  words  to  ex- 
press the  surmise  and  aspiration  of  the  soul.  In  a  morning 
solitude  there  seems  to  lie  about  our  fields  of  thought  an  aerial 
wealth  too  plenteous  to  be  completely  gathered  into  the  granary 
of  language. 


128  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  CJiurch.  [;;.  v. 

O  who  would  mar  tlic  Reason  with  dull  speech, 
'I  bat  must  tie  up  our  visionary  meanings 
And  subtle  individual  apprehensions 
Into  the  common  tongue  of  every  man? 
And  of  the  swift  and  scarce  detected  visitants 
Of  our  illusive  thoughts  seek  to  make  prisoners, 
And  only  grasp  their  garments. 

It  is  one  of  the  pleasant  pastimes  of  the  spring  to  watch  day 
by  day  the  various  ways  in  which  the  trees  express,  by  a  phy- 
siognomy and  gesture  of  their  own,  their  expectation  of  the 
summer.  Look  at  those  young  and  dehcate  ones,  aUve  with 
impatience  to  the  tip  of  every  one  of  the  thousand  sprays  that 
tremble  distinct  against  the  sky,  swaying  uneasily  to  and  fro  in 
the  sharp  morning  breeze.  They  seem  longing  to  slip  their 
rooted  hold  upon  the  earth,  and  float  away  to  embrace  their 
bridegroom  sun  in  the  air.  And  see  those  veterans — what  a 
gnarled,  imperturbable  gravity  in  those  elder  citizens  of  park  or 
wood  :  they  are  used  to  it ;  let  the  day  bring  new  weatherstains 
or  new  buds,  they  can  bide  their  time.  And  are  they  not 
already  wrapped,  many  of  them,  in  hood  and  habit  of  dark 
glossy  ivy — woodland  senatorial  fur — they  can  afibrd  to  wait. 
Here,  look,  close  beside  us,  the  eyes  of  the  buds  are  even  now 
peeping  through  the  black  lattice  of  the  boughs,  and  those 
amber-coloured  clouds  overhead  are  looking  them  promises  of 
kindly  showers  as  they  sail  by.  What  is  that  sparkling  on 
yonder  hill  ?  Only  the  windows  of  a  house  with  eastern  aspect : 
tlie  sun  lights  his  beacon-fire  regularly  there,  to  signal  to  his 
children  down  in  the  hollow  that  he  is  coming,  though  they 
cannot  see  him  yet,  and  will  roll  away  the  cloud  from  the  val- 
ley mouth,  and  make  the  place  of  their  night-sepulchre  glorious 
with  his  shining  raiment. 

Amidst  these  delights  of  nature,  and  the  occupation  of  his 
art,  Gower  thought  sometimes  of  the  mystics  who  enjoy  such 
things  so  little.  He  had  even  promised  to  write  a  short  paper 
on  the  mystical  schoolmen  of  St.  Victor,  Hugo  and  Richard, 


I.]  Neo-Platonisin — Jiow  i)icorporated.  129 


and  was  himself  surprised  to  find  how  soon  he  warmed  to  the 
subject — with  what  zest  he  sought  for  gUmpses  of  cloister-Hfe 
in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries. 

When  next  our  friends  met  in  the  library,  Gower  expressed 
his  hearty  and  unceremonious  satisfaction  at  their  having  done, 
as  he  hoped,  with  that  '  old  bore,'  Dionysius  Areopagita.  By 
none  was  the  sentiment  echoed  with  more  fervour  than  by 
Atherton,  whose  conscience  perhaps  smote  him  for  some  dry 
reading  he  had  inflicted  on  his  auditors.  But  he  made  no 
apology,  that  Gower  might  not  think  he  took  his  remark  to 
himself,  and  return  him  a  compliment. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  To  See  how  this  world  goes  round  !  Only 
think  of  Proclus  having  his  revenge  after  all, — he  and  his 
fellows  ruling  from  their  urns  when  dead  the  Christianity  which 
banished  them  while  living. 

Atherton.  Not  altogether  satisfactory,  either,  could  he 
have  looked  in  upon  the  world,  and  seen  the  use  to  which  they 
put  him.  It  was  true  that,  under  the  name  of  Dionysius,  his 
ideas  were  reverenced  and  expounded  by  generations  of 
dreaming  monks, — that  under  that  name  he  contributed  largely 
to  those  influences  which  kept  stagnant  the  religious  world  of 
the  East  for  some  nine  hundred  years.  But  it  was  also  true 
that  his  thoughts  were  thus  conserved  only  to  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  his  ancient  enemies  ;  so  that  he  assisted  to  confer 
omnipotence  on  those  Christian  priests  whom  he  had  cursed 
daily  in  his  heart  while  lecturing,  sacrificing,  and  conjuring  at 
Athens. 

Gower.  Again  I  say,  let  us  turn  from  the  stereotyped  Greek 
Church  to  the  \\^est, — I  want  to  hear  about  St.  Bernard. 

Atherton.  Presently.  Let  us  try  and  apprehend  clearly 
the  way  in  which  Neo-Platonism  influenced  mediaeval  Europe. 

WiLLOUGMin'.  A  trifling  preliminary  !  Atherton  means  us 
to  stay  here  all  night.    You  may  as  well  resign  yourself,  Gower. 

VOL.  I.  K 


ijo  Mystitisvi  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b.  v. 

Atherton.  Never  fear ;  I  only  want  to  look  about  me,  and 
see  where  we  are  just  now.  Suppose  ourselves  sent  back  to  the 
Middle  Age — what  will  be  our  notion  of  Platonism  ?  We 
can't  read  a  line  of  Greek.  We  see  Plato  only  through  Plo- 
tinus,  conserved  by  Augustine,  handed  down  by  Apuleius  and 
Boethius.  We  reverence  Aristotle,  but  we  care  only  for  his 
dialectics.  We  only  assimilate  from  antiquity  what  seems  to  fall 
within  the  province  of  the  Church.  Plato  appears  to  us  sur- 
rounded by  that  religious  halo  with  which  Neo-Platonism 
invested  philosophy  when  it  grew  so  devotional.  AVe  take 
Augustine's  word  for  it  that  Plotinus  really  enunciated  the  long- 
hidden  esoteric  doctrine  of  Plato.  The  reverent,  ascetic, 
ecstatic  Platonism  of  Alexandria  seems  to  us  so  like  Chris- 
tianity, that  we  are  almost  ready  to  believe  Plato  a  sort  of 
harbinger  for  Christ.  We  are  devoted  Realists ;  and  Realism 
and  Asceticism  make  the  common  ground  of  Platonist  and 
Christian.  If  scholastic  in  our  tendencies,  Aristotle  may  be 
oftener  on  our  lips  ;  if  mystical,  Plato ;  but  we  overlook  their 
differences.  We  believe,  on  Neo-Platonist  authority,  that  the 
two  great  ones  were  not  the  adversaries  which  had  been  sup- 
posed. Aristotle  is  in  the  forecourt,  and  through  study  of  him 
we  pass  into  that  inner  shrine  where  the  rapt  Plato  (all  but  a  monk 
in  our  eyes)  is  supposed  to  exemplify  the  contemplative  life. 

Dionysius  in  the  East,  then,  is  soporific.  Mysticism,  there, 
has  nothing  to  do  save  drowsily  to  label  all  the  Church  gear 
with  symbolic  meanings  of  wondrous  smallness. 

Dionysius  in  the  West  has  come  into  a  young  world  where 
vigorous  minds  have  been  long  accustomed  to  do  battle  on  the 
grandest  questions  ;  grace  and  free-will — how  they  work  to- 
gether ;  sin  and  redemption — what  they  really  are ;  faith  and 
reason — what  may  be  their  limits. 

GowER.  Compare  those  great  controversies  with  that  mise- 
rable Monophysite  and  Monothelite  dispute  for  which  one  can 


I.]  A  bolder  Spirit  in  the  West.  131 


never  get  up  an  interest.     How  much  we  owe  still  to  that 
large-souled  Augustine.* 

Atherton.  Well,  for  this  very  reason,  they  might  worshi[; 
Dionysius  as  a  patron  saint  to  their  hearts'  content  at  St.  Denis, 
but  he  could  never  be  in  France  the  master  mystagogue  they 
made  him  at  Byzantium.  His  name,  and  some  elements  in  his 
system,  became  indeed  an  authority  and  rallying  point  for  the 
mystical  tendency  of  the  West,  but  the  system  as  a  whole  was 
never  appropriated.  He  was  reverentially  dismembered,  and 
so  mi.xed  up  with  doctrines  and  questions  foreign  to  him,  by  a 
different  order  of  minds,  with  another  culture,  and  often  with 
another  purpose,  that  I  would  defy  his  ghost  to  recognise  his 
own  legacy  to  the  Church. 

GowER.  Good  Hugo  of  St.  Victor,  in  his  Commentary  on  the 
Hierarchies,  does  certainly  wonderfully  soften  down  the  pan- 
theism of  his  original.  Dionysius  comes  out  from  under  his 
hands  almost  rational,  quite  a  decent  Christian. 

Atherton.  And  before  Hugo,  if  you  remember,  John  Scotus 
Erigena  translated  him,  and  elaborated  on  his  basis  a  daring 
system  of  his  own,  pantheistic  I  fear,  but  a  marvel  of  intel- 
lectual power— at  least  two  or  three  centuries  in  advance 
of  his  age.  And  these  ideas  of  Erigena's,  apparently  forgotten, 
filter  through,  and  reappear  once  more  at  Paris  m  the  free- 
thinking  philosophy  of  such  men  as  David  of  Dinant  and 
Amalric  of  Bena.* 

WiLLOUGHBY.   Strange   enough  :   so   that,   could  Dionysius 

have  returned  to  the  world  in  the  thirteenth  century,  he,  the 

worshipper  of  the  priesthood,  would  have  found  sundry  of  his 

own  principles  in  a  new  livery,  doing  service  in  the  ranks  of 

the  laity  against  the  clergy,  and  strengthening  the  hands  of 

that  succession  of  heretics  so  long  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the 

corrupt  hierarchy  of  France. 

'  See  Note  i,  p.  146.  '^  See  Note  2,  p.  146- 

K    1 


132  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b.  r. 

Atherton.  In  Germany,  a  century  later,  many  of  the 
mystics  put  Platonist  doctrine  to  a  similar  use.  In  fact,  I  think 
we  may  say  generally  that  the  Neo-Plalonist  element,  which 
acted  as  a  mortal  opiate  in  the  East,  became  a  vivifying  prin- 
ciple in  the  West.  There  the  Alexandrian  doctrine  of  Emana- 
tion was  abandoned,  its  pantheism  nullified  or  rejected,  but  its 
allegorical  interpretation,  its  exaltation,  true  or  false,  of  the 
spirit  above  the  letter, — all  this  was  retained,  and  Platonism 
and  mysticism  together  created  a  party  in  the  Church  the  sworn 
foes  of  mere  scholastic  quibbling,  of  an  arid  and  lifeless  ortho- 
doxy, and  at  last  of  the  more  glaring  abuses  which  had  grown 
up  with  ecclesiastical  pretension. 

GowER.  Now  for  Bernard.  I  see  the  name  there  on  that 
open  page  of  your  note-book.     Read  away — no  excuses. 

Atherton.  Some  old  notes.  But  before  I  read  them,  look 
at  this  rough  plan  of  the  valley  of  Clairvaux,  with  its  famous 
abbey.  I  made  it  after  reading  the  Descripiio  Moiiasterii 
ClarcB-  Vallensis,  inserted  in  the  Benedictine  edition  of  Bernard's 
works.  It  will  assist  us  to  realize  the  locality  in  which  this 
great  church-father  of  the  twelfth  century  passed  most  of  his 
days.  It  was  once  called  the  Valley  of  Wormwood — was  the 
ill-omened  covert  of  banditti;  Bernard  and  his  monks  come 
clearing  and  chanting,  praying  and  planting  ;  and  lo  !  the  absin- 
thial reputation  vanishes — the  valley  smiles — is  called,  and 
made,  Clairvaux,  or  Brightdale. 

Kate.  Transformed,  in  short,  into  'a  serious  paradise,'  as 
Mr.  Thackeray  would  say. 

Atherton.  Yes,  you  puss.  Here,  you  see,  I  have  marked 
two  ranges  of  hills  which,  parting  company,  enclose  the  broad 
sweep  of  our  Brightdale,  or  Fairvalley.  Where  the  hills  are 
nearest  together  you  see  the  one  eminence  covered  with  vines, 
the  other  with  fruit  trees;  and  on  the  sides  and  tops  dusky 
groups  of  monks  have  had  many  a  hard  day's  work,  getting  rid 


1.]  Bernard  at  Clairvaux.  i  3  3 


of  brambles  and  underwood,  chopping  and  binding  faggots,  an<l 
preparing  either  slope  to  yield  them  wherewithal  to  drink,  from 
the  right  hand,  and  to  eat,  from  the  left.  Not  far  from  this 
entrance  to  the  valley  stands  the  huge  pile  of  the  abbey  itself, 
with  its  towers  and  crosses,  its  loop-hole  windows  and  numerous 
outbuildings.  That  is  the  river  Aube  (Alba)  running  down 
between  the  heights ;  here,  you  see,  is  a  winding  channel  the 
monks  have  dug,  that  a  branch  of  it  may  flow  in  under  the 
convent  walls.  Good  river  !  how  hard  it  works  for  them.  No 
sooner  under  the  archway  than  it  turns  the  great  wheel  that 
grinds  their  corn,  fills  their  caldarium,  toils  in  the  tannery,  sets 
the  fulling-mill  agoing.  Hark  to  the  hollow  booming  sound, 
and  the  regular  tramp,  tramp  of  those  giant  wooden  feet ;  and 
there,  at  last,  out  rushes  the  stream  at  the  other  side  of  the 
building,  all  in  a  fume,  as  if  it  had  been  ground  itself  into  so 
much  snowy  foam.  On  this  other  side,  you  see  it  cross,  and 
join  the  main  course  of  its  river  again.  Proceeding  now  along 
the  valley,  with  your  back  to  the  monastery,  you  pass  through 
the  groves  of  the  orchard,  watered  by  crossing  runnels  from  the 
river,  overlooked  by  the  infirmary  windows — a  delightful  spot 
for  contemplative  invalids.  Then  you  enter  the  great  meadow 
— what  a  busy  scene  in  hay-making  time,  all  the  monks  out 
there,  helped  by  the  additional  hands  of  doiiaii  and  cotidiictitii, 
and  the  country  folk  from  all  the  region  round  about, — they 
have  been  working  since  sunrise,  and  will  work  till  vespers  ; 
when  the  belfry  sounds  for  prayers  at  the  fourth  hour  after  sun 
rise,  they  will  sing  their  psalms  in  the  open  air  to  save  time, 
and  doubtless  dine  there  too— a  monastic  pic-nic.  On  one  side 
of  the  meadow  is  a  small  lake,  well  stored  with  fish.  See  some 
of  the  brethren  angling  on  its  bank,  where  those  osiers  have 
been  planted  to  preserve  the  margin  ;  and  two  others  have  put 
off  in  a  boat  and  are  throwing  their  net,  with  edifying  talk  at 
whiles  perhaps,  on  the  parallel  simplicity  of  fish  and  sinners. 


134  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b.  v. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  meadow  are  two  large  farm-houses,  one 
on  each  side  the  river ;  you  might  mistake  them  for  monasteries 
from  their  size  and  structure,  but  for  the  ploughs  and  yokes  of 
oxen  you  see  about. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Thank  you;  so  much  for  the  place;  and 
the  man — his  personal  appearance — is  anything  known  about 
that.?' 

Atherton.  You  must  imagine  him  somewhat  above  the 
middle  height,  very  thin,  with  a  clear,  transparent,  red-and- 
white  complexion  ;  always  retaining  some  colour  on  his  hollow 
cheeks  ;  his  hair  light;  his  beard  inclining  to  red— in  his  later 
years,  mixed  with  white  ;  his  whole  aspect  noble  and  persuasive, 
and  when  he  speaks  under  excitement  losing  every  trace  of 
physical  feebleness  in  the  lofty  transformation  of  a  benign 
enthusiasm.^ 

Now  I  shall  trouble  you  with  some  of  my  remarks,  on  his 

mysticism    principally.     You   will   conceive  what  a  world  of 

business  he  must  have  had  upon  his  shoulders,  even  when  at 

home  at  Clairvaux,    and   acting  as   simple   abbot;  so   much 

detail    to   attend   to, — so   many   difficulties    to    smooth,    and 

quarrels  to  settle,  and  people  to  advise,  in  connexion  with  his 

own    numerous  charge   and   throughout   all    the   surrounding 

neighbourhood;  while   to  all  this  was  added  the  care  of  so 

many  infant  monasteries,  springing  up  at  the  rate  of  about  four 

a  year,  in  every  part  of  Europe,   founded  on  the  pattern  of 

Clairvaux,  and   looking  to  him  for  counsel  and  for  men.     I 

scarcely  need  remind  you  how   struggling  Christendom  sent 

incessant  monks  and   priests,   couriers   and  men-at-arms,    to 

knock   and   blow  horn  at  the  gate  of  Clairvaux  Abbey ;  for 

Bernard,  and   none  but   he,  must  come   out  and  fight  that 

audacious  Abelard  ;  Bernard  must  decide  between  rival  Popes, 

and  cross    the  Alps    time  after  time  to  quiet    tossing  Italy; 

Bernard  alone  is  the  hope  of  fugitive  Pope  and  trembling 

3  Vita,  ii.  cap.  v. 


c.  I.]  Bernard  at  Clairvaitx.  135 

Church ;  he  only  can  win  back  turbulent  nobles,  alienated 
people,  recreant  priests,  when  Arnold  of  Brescia  is  in  arms  at 
Rome,  and  when  Catharists,  Petrobrusians,  Waldenses,  and 
heretics  of  every  shade,  threaten  the  hierarchy  on  either  side 
the  Alps ;  and  at  the  preaching  of  Bernard  the  Christian  world 
pours  out  to  meet  the  disaster  of  a  new  crusade. 

GowER.  And  accomplishing  a  work  like  this  with  that  ema- 
ciated, wretchedly  dyspeptic  frame  of  his  ! — first  of  all  exerting 
his  extraordinary  will  to  the  utmost  to  unbuild  his  body  ;  and 
then  putting  forth  the  same  self-control  to  make  the  ruins  do 
the  work  of  a  sound  structure. 

Atherton.  Could  we  have  seen  him  at  home  at  Clairvaux, 
after  one  of  those  famous  Italian  journeys,  no  look  or  word 
would  have  betrayed  a  taint  of  spiritual  pride,  though  every 
rank  in  church  and  state  united  to  do  him  honour — though 
great  ciiies  would  have  made  him  almost  by  force  their  spiritual 
king — though  the  blessings  of  the  people  and  the  plaudits  of 
the  council  followed  the  steps  of  the  peacemaker — and  though, 
in  the  belief  of  all,  a  dazzling  chain  of  miracles  had  made  his 
pathway  glorious.  We  should  have  found  him  in  the  kitchen, 
rebuking  by  his  example  some  monk  who  grumbled  at  having 
to  wash  the  pots  and  pans  ;  on  the  hill-side,  cutting  his  tale 
and  bearing  his  burthen  with  the  meanest  novice ;  or  seen  him 
oiling  his  own  boots,  as  they  say  the  arch-tempter  did  one  day ; 
we  should  have  interrupted  him  in  the  midst  of  his  tender 
counsel  to  some  distressed  soul  of  his  cloistered  flock,  or  just 
as  he  had  sat  down  to  write  a  sermon  on  a  passage  in  Canticles 
against  the  next  church-festival.''  But  now  to  my  notes. 
[Atherton  reads.) 

*  See  the  account  of  his  diet,  and  devil's  visit  to  Bernard,    '  ut  ungeret 

of  the  feebleness  and  sickness  conse-  sandalia   sua    secundum   consuetudi- 

quent  on  his  austerities,  by  the  same  nem,'   and  relates  the  rebuke  of  the 

biographer  (Alanus),   Vita,  ii.  caj).  x.,  proud  monk  who  would  not  wash  the 

in  the  Paris  reprint  of  1839,  from  the  sciite/lcs    in   the  kitchen.  —  Vi(a,    iv. 

Benedictine  edition  of  Bernard,  torn.  ii.  p.  2508. 
p.  2426.    John  Eremita  describes  the 


136  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b.  v. 

In  considering  the  religious  position  of  Bernard,  I  find  it 
not  at  all  remarkable  that  he  should  have  been  a  mystic, — very 
remarkable  that  he  should  not  have  been  much  more  the 
mystic  than  he  was.  This  moderation  may  be  attributed  partly 
to  his  constant  habit  of  searching  the  Scriptures — studying  them 
devotionally  for  himself,  unencumbered  with  the  commentaries 
reverenced  by  tradition.'  Rigid  exemplar  and  zealous  propa- 
gator of  monasticism  as  he  was,  these  hours  with  the  Bible 
proved  a  corrective  not  unblessed,  and  imparted  even  to  the 
devotion  of  the  cloister  a  healthier  tone.  Add  to  this  his  ex- 
cellent natural  judgment,  and  the  combination,  in  his  case,  of 
the  active  with  the  contemplative  life.  He  knew  the  world 
and  men  j  he  stood  with  his  fellows  in  the  breach,  and  the 
shock  of  conflict  spoiled  him  for  a  dreamer.  The  distractions 
over  which  he  expended  so  much  complaint  were  his  best 
friends.  They  were  a  hindrance  in  the  way  to  the  monastic 
ideal  of  virtue — a  help  toward  the  Christian.  They  prevented 
his  attaining  that  pitch  of  uselessness  to  which  tlie  conventual 
life  aspires,  and  brought  him  down  a  little  nearer  to  the  meaner 
level  of  apostolic  labour.  They  made  him  the  worse  monk, 
and  by  so  much  the  better  man. 

With  Bernard  the  monastic  life  is  the  one  thing  needful. 
He  began  life  by  drawing  after  him  into  the  convent  all  his 
kindred ;  sweeping  them  one  by  one  from  the  high  seas  of  the 
world  with  the  irresistible  vortex  of  his  own  religious  fervour. 
His  incessant  cry  for  Europe  is — Better  monasteries,  and 
more  of  them.  Let  these  ecclesiastical  castles  multiply;  let 
them  cover  and  command  the  land,  well  garrisoned  with  men 
of  God,  and  then,  despite  all  heresy  and  schism,  theocracy 
will  flourish,  the  earth  shall  yield  her  increase,  and  all  people 
praise  the  Lord.  Who  so  wise  as  Bernard  to  win  souls  for 
Christ — that  is  to  say,  recruits  for  the  cloister?     With  what 

^  Vita,  ii.  cap.  x.  32. 


J.  I J  Influences  qualify ing  his  Mysticism.  i  3  7 

eloquence  he  paints  the  raptures  of  contemplation,  the  vanity 
and  sin  of  earthly  ambition  or  of  earthly  love  !  AVherever 
in  his  travels  Bernard  may  have  preached,  there,  presently, 
exultant  monks  must  open  wide  their  doors  to  admit  new 
converts.  Wherever  he  goes  he  bereaves  mothers  of  their 
children,  the  aged  of  their  last  solace  and  last  support ; 
praising  those  the  most  who  leave  most  misery  behind  them. 
How  sternly  does  he  rebuke  those  Rachels  who  mourn  and 
will  not  be  comforted  for  children  dead  to  them  for  ever  I 
What  vitriol  does  he  pour  into  the  wounds  when  he  asks  if 
they  will  drag  their  son  down  to  perdition  with  themselves 
by  resisting  the  vocation  of  heaven !  whether  it  was  not 
enough  that  they  brought  him  forth  sinful  to  a  world  of  sin, 
and  will  they  now,  in  their  insane  affection,  cast  him  into  the 
fires  of  hell?^  Yet  Bernard  is  not  hard-hearted  by  nature. 
He  can  pity  this  disgraceful  weakness  of  the  flesh.  He  makes 
such  amends  as  superstition  may.  I  will  be  a  father  to  him, 
he  says.  Alas  !  cold  comfort.  You,  their  hearts  will  answer, 
whose  flocks  are  countless,  would  nothing  content  you  but 
our  ewe  lamb?  Perhaps  some  cloister  will  be,  for  them  too, 
the  last  resource  of  their  desolation.  They  will  fly  for  ease  in 
their  pain  to  the  system  which  caused  it.  Bernard  hopes  so. 
So  inhuman  is  the  humanity  of  asceticism  ;  cruel  its  tender 
mercies  ;  thus  does  it  depopulate  the  world  of  its  best  in 
order  to  improve  it. 

To  measure,  then,  the  greatness  of  Bernard,  let  me  clearly 
apprehend  the  main  purpose  of  his  life.  It  was  even  this 
convent-founding,  convent-ruling  business.  This  is  his  proper 
praise,  that,  though  devoted  body  and  soul,  to  a  system  so 
false,  he  himself  should  have  retained  and  practised  so  much 
of  truth. 

The  task  of  history  is  a  process  of  selection.  The  farther 
"  Epp.  ex.,  cxi. 


13S  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [«. 


we  recede  from  a  period,  the  more  do  we  eliminate  of  what 
interests  us  no  longer.  A  itw  leading  events  stand  clearly  out 
as  characteristic  of  the  time,  and  about  them  all  our  details 
are  clustered.  But  when  dealing  with  an  individual,  or  with 
the  private  life  of  any  age,  the  method  must  be  reversed,  and 
we  must  encumber  ourselves  again  with  all  the  cast-off  baggage 
that  strews  the  wayside  of  time's  march. 

So  with  Bernard.  The  Abelard  controversy,  the  schism, 
the  quarrels  of  pope  and  emperor,  the  crusade,  are  seen  by  us 
—who  know  what  happened  afterwards— in  their  true  impor- 
tance. These  facts  make  the  epoch,  and  throw  all  else  into 
shade.  But  we  could  not  so  have  viewed  them  in  the  press 
and  confusion  of  the  times  that  saw  them  born.  Bernard  and 
his  monks  were  not  always  thinking  of  Abelard  or  Anaclet,  of 
Arnold  of  Brescia,  Roger  of  Sicily,  or  Lothaire.  In  the  great 
conflicts  which  these  names  recal  to  our  minds,  Bernard  bore 
his  manful  part  as  a  means  to  an  end.  Many  a  sleepless  nio^ht 
must  they  have  cost  him,  many  a  journey  full  of  anxiety  InA 
hardship,  many  an  agonizing  prayer,  on  the  eve  of  a  crisis 
calling  for  all  his  skill  and  all  his  courage.  But  these  were 
difficulties  which  he  was  summoned  to  encounter  on  his  road 
to  the  great  object  of  his  life— the  establishment  of  ecclesiastical 
supremacy  by  means  of  the  conventual  institute.  The  quarrels 
within  the  Church,  and  between  the  Church  and  the  State, 
must  be  in  some  sort  settled  before  his  panacea  could  be 
applied  to  the  sick  body  of  the  time.  In  the  midst  of  such 
controversies  a  host  of  minor  matters  would  demand  his  care, 
—to  him  of  scarcely  less  moment,  to  us  indifferent.  There 
would  be  the  drawing  out  of  convent  charters  and  convent 
rules,  the  securing  of  land,  of  money,  of  armed  protection  for 
the  rapidly  increasing  family  of  monasteries  ;  election  of 
abbots  and  of  bishops ;  guidance  of  the  same  in  perplexity ; 
holding  of  synods   and  councils,  with    the  business  thereto 


c.  1.]  His  Success.  139 

pertaining  ;  delinquencies  and  spiritual  distresses  of  indi- 
viduals;  jealous  squabbles  to  be  soothed  between  his  Cis- 
tercian order  and  them  of  Clugny;  suppression  of  clerical 
luxury  and  repression  of  lay  encroachment,  &c.  &c.  Thus 
the  vear  11 18  would  be  memorable  to  Bernard  and  his  monks, 
not  so  much  because  in  it  Gelasius  ascended  the  chair  of  St. 
Peter,  and  the  Emperor  Henry  gave  him  a  rival,  or  even 
because  then  the  order  of  Knights  Templars  took  its  rise, 
so  much  as  from  their  joy  and  labour  about  the  founding  of 
two  new  monasteries,— because  that  year  saw  the  establishment 
of  the  first  daughter  of  Clairvaux,  the  Abbey  of  Fontaines,  in 
the  diocese  of  Chalons  ;  and  of  a  sister,  Fontenay,  beside  the 
Yonne  ; — the  one  a  growth  northward,  among  the  dull  plains 
of  Champagne,  with  their  lazy  streams  and  monotonous 
poplars;  the  other  a  southern  colony,  among  the  luscious 
slopes  of  vine-clad  Burgundy.' 

Bernard  had  his  wish.  He  made  Clairvaux  the  cynosure  of 
all  contemplative  eyes.  For  any  one  who  could  exist  at  all 
as  a  monk,  with  any  satisfaction  to  himself,  that  was  the  place 
above  all  others.  Brother  Godfrey,  sent  out  to  be  first  abbot 
of  Fontenay, — as  soon  as  he  has  set  all  things  in  order  there, 
returns,  only  too  gladly,  fiom  that  rich  and  lovely  region,  to 
re-enter  his  old  cell,  to  walk  around,  delightedly  revisiting  the 
well-remembered  spots  among  the  trees  or  by  the  waterside, 
marking  how  the  fields  and  gardens  have  come  on,  and 
relating  to  the  eager  brethren  (for  even  Bernard's  monks  have 
curiosity)  all  that  befel  him  in  his  work.  He  would  sooner  be 
third  prior  at  Clairvaux  than  abbot  of  Fontenay.  So,  too, 
with  brother  Humbert,  commissioned  in  like  manner  to 
regulate  Igny  Abbey  {fourth  daughter  of  Clairvaux).  He  soon 
comes  back,  weary  of  the  labour  and  sick  for  home,  to  look  on 
the  Aube  once  more,  to  hear  the  old  mills  go  drumming  and 
"  Chronologia  Bernardina,  0pp.  torn.  i.  p.  83. 


140  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  U. 


droning,  with  that  monotony  of  muffled  sound— tlie  associate 
of  his  pious  reveries— often  heard  in  his  dreams  when  far 
away  ;  to  set  his  feet  on  the  very  same  flagstone  in  the  choir 
where  he  used  to  stand,  and  to  be  happy.  But  Bernard,  though 
away  in  Italy,  toihng  in  the  matter  of  the  schism,  gets  to  hear 
of  his  return,  and  finds  time  to  send  him  across  the  Alps  a 
letter  of  rebuke  for  this  criminal  self-pleasing,  whose  terrible 
sharpness  must  have  darkened  the  poor  man's  meditations  for 
many  a  day/ 

Bernard  had  farther  the  satisfaction  of  improving  and  ex- 
tending monasticism  to  the  utmost ;  of  sewing  together,  with 
tolerable  success,  the  rended  vesture  of  the  papacy ;  of  sup- 
pressing a  more  popular  and  more  scriptural  Christianity,  for 
the  benefit  of  his  despotic  order ;  of  quenching  for  a  time,  by 
the  extinction  of  Abelard,  the  spirit  of  free  inquiry ;  and  of 
seeing  his  ascetic  and  superhuman  ideal  of  religion  every- 
where accepted  as  the  genuine  type  of  Christian  virtue. 

At  the  same  time  the  principles  advocated  by  Bernard  were 
deprived,  in  his  hands,  of  their  most  noxious  elements.  His 
sincere  piety,  his  large  heart,  his  excellent  judgment,  always 
qualify,  and  seem  sometimes  to  redeem,  his  errors.  But  the 
well-earned  glory  and  the  influence  of  a  name  achieved  by  an 
ardour  and  a  toil  almost  passing  human  measure,  were  thrown 
into  the  wrong  scale.  The  mischiefs  latent  in  the  teaching  of 
Bernard  become  ruinously  apparent  in  those  who  entered  into 
his  labours.  His  successes  proved  eventually  the  disasters  of 
Christendom.  One  of  the  best  of  men  made  plain  the  way 
for  some  of  the  worst.  Bernard,  while  a  covert  for  the  fugitive 
pontiff,  hunted  out  by  insurgent  people  or  by  wrathful  emperor, 
would  yet  impose  some  rational  limitations  on  the  papal  autho- 
rity.' But  the  chair  upheld  by  Bernard  was  to  be  filled  by  an 
Innocent  IH.,  whose  merciless  arrogance  should  know  no 
8  Epist.  cxli.     9  De  Consideratione,  IV.  iii.  7,  and  11.  vi.  11.  pp.  1028  and  1060. 


1.]  Undue  Limitation  of  Reason.  141 


bounds.  Bernard  pleaded  nobly  for  the  Jews,  decimated  in 
the  crusading  fury.^"  Yet  the  atrocities  of  Dominic  were  but 
the  enkindling  of  fuel  which  Bernard  had  amassed.  Disciple 
of  tradition  as  he  was,  he  would  allow  the  intellect  its  range  ; 
zealous  as  he  might  be  for  monastic  rule,  the  spontaneous 
inner  life  of  devotion  was  with  him  the  end — all  else  the  means. 
Kre  long,  the  end  was  completely  forgotten  in  the  means.  In 
succeeding  centuries,  the  Church  of  Rome  retained  what  life  it 
could  by  repeating  incessantly  the  remedy  of  Bernard.  As 
corruption  grew  flagrant,  new  orders  were  devised.  Bernard 
saw  not,  nor  those  who  followed  in  his  steps,  that  the  evil  lay, 
not  in  the  defect  or  abuse  of  vows  and  rules,  but  in  the 
introduction  of  vows  and  rules  at  all, — that  these  unnatural 
restraints  must  always  produce  unnatural  excesses. 

What  is  true  concerning  the  kind  of  religious  impulse  im- 
parted to  Europe  by  the  great  endeavour  of  Bernard's  life  is 
no  less  so  as  regards  the  character  of  his  mysticism. 

In  the  theology  of  Bernard  reason  has  a  place,  but  not  the 
right  one.  His  error  in  this  respect  is  the  primary  source  of 
that  mystical  bias  so  conspicuous  in  his  religious  teaching. 
Like  Anselm,  he  bids  you  believe  first,  and  understand,  if  pos- 
sible, afterwards.  He  is  not  prepared  to  admit  the  great  truth 
that  if  Reason  yields  to  Faith,  and  assigns  itself  anywhere  a 
limit,  it  must  be  on  grounds  satisfactory  to  Reason.  To  any 
measure  of  Anselm's  remarkable  speculative  ability,  Bernard 
could  lay  no  claim.  He  was  at  home  only  in  the  province  of 
practical  religion.  But  to  enquiries  and  reasonings  such  as 
those  in  which  Anselm  delighted,  he  was  ready  to  award,  not 
blame,  but  admiration.  Faith,  with  Bernard,  receives  the 
treasure  of  divine  truth,  as  it  were,  wrapped  up  {invohitiDii) ; 
Understanding  may  afterwards  cautiously  uiifold  the  envelope, 
and  peep  at  the  prize,  but  may  never  examine  the  contents  first, 
•0  Epist.  ccclxv.  to  the  Archbishop  of  Mayence,  against  the  fanatic  Rudolph. 


i42  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church. 


to   determine   whether  it  shall  be  received  or  not."     If  the 
chase  be  so  dear  to  that  mighty  hunter,  Intellect,  he  shall  have 
his  sport,   on   certain  conditions.     Let  him   admit   that   the 
Church  has  caught  and  killed  the  quarry  of  truth,  and  brought 
It  to  his  door.     That  granted,  he  may,  if  he  will,  cry  boot  and 
saddle,  ride  out  to  see  where  the  game  broke  cover,  or  gallop 
with  hounds,  and  halloo  over  hill  and  dale,  pursuing  an  imagi- 
nary object,  and  learning  how  truth  might  have  been  run  down. 
Great,   accordingly,    was   Bernard's   horror    when   he   beheld 
Abelard  throwing  open  to  discussion  the  dogmas  of  the  Church; 
when  he  saw  the  alacrity  with  which  such  questions  were  taken 
up  all  over  France,  and  learnt  that  not  the  scholars  of  Paris 
merely,  but    an   ignorant  and  stripling  laity  were  discussing 
everyday,  at  street  corners,  in  hall,  in  cottage,  the  mysteries  ot 
the  Trinity  and  the  Immaculate  Conception.     Faith,  he  cried 
believes  ;  does  not  discuss  ;  Abelard  holds  God  in  suspicion,  and 
will  not   believe  even    Him  without  reason  given.''     At  the 
same  time,  the  credo  ut  intelligam  of  Bernard  is  no  indolent  or 
constrained  reception  of  a  formula.     Faith  is  the  divine  persua- 
sion of  the  pure  in  heart  and  life.     Bernard  would  grant  that 
different  minds  will   apprehend    the    same    truth  in  difterent 
aspects ;  that  an  absolute  uniformity  is  impossible.     But  when 
faith  is  made  to  depend  so  entirely  on  the  state  of  the  heart, 
such  concessions  are  soon  withdrawn.     A  difference  in  opinion 
from  the  acknowledged  standard  of  piety  is  regarded  as  a  sure 
sign  of  a  depraved  heart.     A  divine  illumination  as  to  doctrine 

T.!lii"f-    "^us    disji^     ig^gg     p,^.^,^_  ^^^   ^                        intellectus    habet 

In te  ect.on,  and  Opinion  :-Fides  est  tamen   invoU.crum,    quod   non   intel 

voh.ntanaquredanietcertapraslibatio      lectus Nilautem  malumn. 

necdum    propalatte    veritatis.      Intel-  scire,    cjuam    qu.^    fide    h^   scrus 

lectus  est  re,   cujuscun.que  invisibilis  Nil  su^ererit  ad   beatitullilu,    cu,  " 

certa  et  manifes ta  notitia.     Opinio  est  quae  jam  certa  sunt  nob  serunt'  4  e 

?al^u!n^;L^^^.°es'c£^^  !^^:^"'^  =  fi  "  "f^-^^  Con.^erati^-^!^, 

igitur    distat    (fides)    ab    intellectu  ?  '-  See  Note,  p.  140. 

^empe  quod  etsi  non  habet  incertum  ^ 


c.  I.]  Contemplative  Abstnictiou.  143 

is  assumed  for  those  whose  practical  hoUness  caused  them  to 
shine  as  hghts  in  the  Church.'' 

Thus,  on  the  elementary  question  of  faith,  the  mj'slical 
tendency  of  Bernard  is  apparent;  the  subjective  and  even  the 
merely  emotional  element  assumes  undue  prominence  ;  and 
a  way  is  opened  for  the  error  incident  to  all  mysticism — the 
unwarrantable  identification  of  our  own  thoughts  with  the  mind 
of  God.  But  if,  in  his  starting-point,  Bernard  be  a  mystic, 
much  more  so  is  he  in  the  goal  he  strains  every  power  to 

reach . 

The  design  of  Christianity  is,  in  his  idea,  not  to  sanctify  and 
elevate  all  our  powers,  to  raise  us  to  our  truest  manhood, 
accomplishing  in  every  excellence  all  our  faculties  both  of  mind 
and  body,  but  to  teach  us  to  nullify  our  corporeal  part,  to 
seclude  ourselves,  by  abstraction,  from  its  demands,  and  to  raise 
us,  while  on  earth,  to  a  super-human  exaltation  above  the  flesh, 

a  vision  and  a  glory  approaching  that  of  the  angelic  state. 

Thus  he  commences  his  analysis  of  meditation  by  describing  the 
felicity  of  angels.  They  have  not  to  study  the  Creator  in  his 
works,  slowly  ascending  by  the  media  of  sense.  They  behold 
all  things  in  the  Word— more  perfect  there,  by  far,  than  in 
themselves.  Their  knowledge  is  immediate — a  direct  intuition 
of  the  primal  ideas  of  things  in  the  mind  of  the  Creator.  To 
such  measure  of  this  immediate  intuition  as  mortals  may  attain 
he  exhorts  tlie  devout  mind  to  aspire.  They  do  well  who  piously 
employ  their  senses  among  the  things  of  sense  for  the  divine 
glory  and  the  good  of  others.  Happier  yet  are  they  who,  with 
a  true  philosophy,  survey  and  explore  things  visible,  that  they 
may  rise  through  them  to  a  knowledge  of  the  Invisible.  But 
most  of  all  does  he  extol  the  state  of  those  who,  not  by  gradual 
stages  of  ascent,  but  by  a  sudden  lapture,  are  elevated  at  times, 
like  St.  Paul,  to  the  immediate  vision  of  heavenly  things. 
'3  See  Note,  p.  149. 


144  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b. 


Such  favoured  ones  are  adepts  in  the  third  and  highest  species 
of  meditation.  Totally  withdrawn  into  themselves,  they  are  not 
only,  like  other  good  men,  dead  to  the  body  and  the  world,  and 
raised  above  the  grosser  hindrances  of  sense,  but  even  beyond 
those  images  and  similitudes  drawn  from  visible  objects  which 
colour  and  obscure  our  ordinary  conceptions  of  spiritual 
truths.'* 

But  if,  so  far,  Bernard  betrays  the  mystic,  in  this  ambition 
to  transcend  humanity  and  to  anticipate  the  sight  and  fruition 
of  the  celestial  state,  let  him  have  full  credit  for  th»  moderation 
which  preserved  him  from  going  farther.  Compared  with  that 
of  many  subsequent  mystics,  the  mysticism  of  Bernard  is 
sobriety  itself  From  the  practical  vice  of  mysticism  in  his 
Church, — its  tendency  to  supersede  by  extraordinary  attain- 
ments the  humbler  and  more  arduous  Christian  virtues — 
Bernard  was  as  free  as  any  one  could  be  in  those  times. 
Against  the  self-indulgence  which  would  sacrifice  every  active 
external  obligation  to  a  life  of  contemplative  sloth  he  protested 
all  his  days,  by  word  and  by  example.  He  is  equally  removed 
from  the  pantheistic  extreme  of  Eckart  and  the  imaginative 
extravagances  of  St.  Theresa.  His  doctrine  of  Union  with  God 
does  not  surrender  our  personality  or  substitute  God  for  the 
soul  in  man.  When  he  has  occasion  to  speak,  with  much  hesi- 
tation and  genuine  humility,  of  the  highest  point  of  his  own 
experience,  he  has  no  wonderful  visions  to  relate.  The  visit  of 
the  Saviour  to  his  soul  was  unattended  by  visible  glory,  by 
voices,  tastes,  or  odours ;  it  vindicated  its  reality  only  by  the 
joy  which  possessed  him,  and  the  new  facility  with  whicli  he 
brought  forth  the  practical  fruits  of  the  Spirit."  He  prays 
God  for  peace  and  joy  and  charity  to  all  men,  and  leaves  other 
exaltations  of  devotion  to  apostles  and  apostolic  men, — 'the 
high  hills  to  the  harts  and  the  climbing  goats.'     The   fourth 

"  See  Note  i,  p.  150.  a  See  Note  2,  p.  150. 


c.  I.]  Mystical  interpretation  running  riot.  145 

and  Iiighest  stage  of  love  in  his  scale, — that  transformation  and 
utter  self-loss  in  which  we  love  ourselves  only  for  the  sake  of 
God,  he  believes  unattainable  in  this  life, — certainly  beyond  his 
own  reach.  To  the  mystical  death,  self-annihilation,  and  holy 
indifference  of  the  Quietists,  he  is  altogether  a  stranger.*^ 

It  is  worth  v/^hile  at  least  to  skim  and  dip  among  his  sermons 
on  the  Canticles.  The  Sotig  of  Solomon  vi  a  trying  book  for  a 
man  like  Bernard,  and  those  expositions  do  contain  much  sad 
stuff,  interspersed,  however,  with  many  fine  reaches  of  thought 
and  passages  of  consummate  eloquence.  Mystical  interpretation 
runs  riot.  Everything  is  symbolized.  Metaphors  are  elabo- 
rated into  allegories,  similitudes  broken  up  into  divers  branches, 
and  about  each  ramification  a  new  set  of  fancies  clustered.  The 
sensuous  imagery  borrowed  from  love  and  wine^the  kisses, 
bedchambers,  and  winecellars  of  the  soul,  remind  us  at  every 
page  of  that  luscious  poetry  in  which  the  Persian  Sufis  are  said 
to  veil  the  aspirations  of  the  spirit  of  man  after  its  Maker. 
Yet,  with  all  the  faults  of  a  taste  so  vicious  there  is  no  affecta- 
tion, no  sentimentality,  nothing  intentionally  profane.  It  was 
with  Bernard  a  duty  and  a  delight  to  draw  as  much  meaning  as 
possible  from  the  sacred  text,  by  the  aid  of  an  inexhaustible 
fancy  and  an  inventive  ingenuity  in  that  way,  which  only 
Swedenborg  has  surpassed.  Even  in  his  letters  on  compara- 
tively ordinary  topics,  he  always  gives  a  certain  largeness  to  his 
subject  by  his  lofty  imaginative  style  of  handling  it.  He 
seldom  confines  himself  to  the  simple  point  in  hand,  but  starts 
off  to  fetch  for  it  adornments,  illustrations,  or  sanctions  from 
quarters  the  most  remote,  or  heights  the  most  awful.     Always 

">  Sane  in  hoc  giadu    (tertio)    diu  xv.  and  Epht.  xi.  8.    And,  again,   in 

statur  :  et  nescio  si  a  qiioquam  homi-  the  same  treatise  (vii.  17), — Non  enim 

numquartus  in  hac  vita  perfecte  appre-  sine  prtemio  diligitur  Deus,  etsi  absque 

hendit'jr,   ut  se  scilicet    diligat   homo      pr^emii    intuitu    diligendus  sit 

tantum  propter  Deum.     Asserant  lioc  Verus   amor    se    ipso    contentns    est. 

si  qui  experti  sunt:  mihi,  fateor,  Habet  pnemium,  sed  id  quod  amatur. 
impossibile  videtui . — De  diligendoDeo, 

VOL.  1.  L 


1. 1 6  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [»•  '^• 

in  earnest,  yet  always  the  rhetorician,  he  seems  to  write  as 
though  viewing,  not  the  subject  itself,  but  some  vast  reflection 
of  it  projected  on  the  sky.  In  those  sermons  on  Solomon's 
Song,  it  is  generally  rather  the  glowing  and  unseemly  diction, 
than  the  thought,  we  have  to  blame.  With  such  allowance,  it 
is  not  difficult  to  discern,  under  that  luxuriance  of  flowers  and 
weeds,  many  a  sentiment  true  and  dear  to  the  Christian  heart 
in  every  age. 

Bernard  appears  to  have  believed  himself  invested  on  some 
occasions  with  miraculous  powers.  So  far  he  has  a  place  in  the 
province  of  theurgic  mysticism.  Perhaps  the  worst  thing  of 
this  sort  to  be  laid  to  his  charge  is  his  going  so  far  as  he  did 
towards  endorsing  the  prophecies  of  the  Abbess  Hildegard." 
17  See  Note,  p.  151. 


Note  to  page  131. 

The  writings  of  Augustine  handed  Neo-Platonism  down  to  posterity  as 
the  original  and  esoteric  doctrine  of  the  first  followers  of  Plato.  He  enu- 
merates the  causes  which  led,  in  his  opinion,  to  the  negative  position  assumed 
by  the  Academics,  and  to  the  concealment  of  their  real  opinions.  He  describes 
Plotinus  as  a  resuscitated  Plato.     Contra  Academ.  iii.  17-20. 

He  commends  Porphyry  for  his  measure  of  scepticism  as  regards  Theurgy, 
and  bestows  more  than  due  praise  on  the  doctrine  of  Illumination  held  by 
Plotinus,  for  its  similarity  to  the  Christian  truth  concerning  divine  grace. 
De  Civitaie  Dei,  x.  10 ;  x.  2. 

He  gives  a  scale  of  the  spiritual  degrees  of  ascent  to  God,  formed  after  the 
Platonist  model  (the  eirava/Sae/uol  of  the  Symposium) ,  and  so  furnished  a  pre- 
cedent for  all  the  attempts  of  a  similar  kind  in  which  scholastic  mysticism 
delighted  to  exercise  its  ingenuity.     De  Quantitate  AtiimcE,  c.  35. 

He  enumerates  three  kinds  of  perception,— corporeal,  intellectual  [scieiifia) 
and  spiritual  {sapientid)  ;  and  in  describing  the  last  uses  the  words  introrsum 
ascendere{De  Trin.  xii.  15  ;  and  comp.  De  Lib.  Arbit.  ii.  12).  But  this  phrase 
does  not  appear  to  have  carried,  with  Augustine,  the  sense  it  bore  when  gladly 
adopted  by  mystical  divines  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  He 
says  elsewhere  that  man,  like  the  prodigal,  must  come  to  himself  before  he  can 
arise  and  go  to  his  Father,  [Retract,  i.  8.)  Here  what  the  wanderer  finds 
within  is  the  voice  of  conscience,  and  in  this  sense  it  is  quite  true  that  the  step 
inward  is  a  step  upward.  But  it  is  not  true  that  the  inmost  is  ttie  highest  in  the 
sense  that  man  is  able  by  abstraction  and  introspection  to  discover  within 
himself  a  light  which  shall  supersede,  or  supplement,  or  even  supply  the  plac* 
of  external  Revelation. 

Note  to  page  131. 

John  Scotus  Erigena. — This  remarkable  man  began  to  teach  in  the 
•School  of  the  Palace,'  under  Charles  the  Bald,  about  the  middle  of  the  ninth 


c.  I.]  Johu  Scot  us  Erigena.  147 

century.  He  translated  Dionysius,  took  part  iii  the  Gottschalk  controversy, 
and,  at  last,  when  persecuted  for  the  freedom  of  his  opinions,  found  a  refuge 
with  Alfred  the  Great. 

Erigena  idolizes  Dionysius  and  his  comtnentator  Maximus.  He  believes  in 
their  hierarchies,  their  divine  Dark,  and  supreme  Nothing.  He  declaies,  with 
them,  that  God  is  the  essence  of  all  things.  Ipse  namque  omnium  essentia  est 
qui  solus,  vere  est,  ut  ait  Dionysius  Areopagita.  Esse,  inquit,  omnium  est 
Superesse  Divinifatis. — De  Div.  Nat.  i.  3,  p.  443,  [Jo.  Scoti  Opp.  Paris,  1853.) 

But  though  much  of  the  language  is  retained,  the  doctrine  of  Dionysius 
has  assumed  a  form  altogether  new  in  the  brain  of  the  Scotchman.  The 
phraseology  of  the  emanation  theory  is,  henceforth,  only  metaphor.  What 
men  call  creation  is,  with  Erigena,  a  necessary  and  eternal  self-unfolding 
[analysis,  he  calls  it)  of  the  divine  nature.  As  all  things  are  now  God, 
self-unfolded,  so,  in  the  final  restitution,  all  things  will  be  resolved  into  God, 
self- withdrawn.  Not  the  mind  of  man  merely,  as  the  Greek  thought,  but 
matter  and  all  creatures  will  be  reduced  to  their  primordial  causes,  and 
God  be  manifested  as  all  in  all.  De  Div.  Nat.  i.  72.  Postremo  universalis 
creatura  Creator!  adunabitur,  et  erit  in  ipso  et  cum  ipso  unum.  Et  hie  est 
finis  omnium  visibilium  et  invisibilium,  quoniam  omnia  visibilia  in  intelligibilia, 
et  intelligibilia  in  ipsum  Deum  transibunt,  mirabili  et  ineffabili  adunatione, 
non  autem,  ut  .ssepe  di.ximus,  essentiarum  aut  substantiarum  confusiom; 
aut  interitu — v.  20,  p.  894.  In  this  restitution,  the  elect  are  united  to  God 
with  a  degree  of  intimacy  peculiar  to  themselves — v.  39.  The  agent  of  this 
restoration,  both  for  beings  above  and  below  mankind,  is  the  Incarnate  Word 
—V.  25,  p.  913.  Erigena  regards  our  incarceration  in  the  body,  and  the  dir,- 
tinction  of  sex,  as  the  consequence  of  sin.  He  abandons  the  idea  of  a  sen- 
suous hell.  What  is  termed  the  fire  of  hell  is  with  him  a  principle  of  law  to 
which  both  the  good  and  evil  are  subject,  which  wickedness  assimilates  and 
makes  a  torment  ;  goodness  a  blessing.  So,  he  says,  the  light  is  grateful  to  the 
sound  eye,  painful  to  the  diseased  ;  and  the  food  which  is  welcome  to 
health  is  loathed  by  sickness.  De  Predestinaiionc,  cap.  xvii.  p.  428.  This 
idea,  in  which  there  lies  assuredly  an  element  of  truth,  became  a  favourite 
one  with  the  mystics,  and  re-appears  in  many  varieties  of  mysticism.  Eri- 
gena, farther,  anticipates  Kant  in  regarding  time  aud  space  as  mere  modes 
of  conception  peculiar  to  our  present  state.  He  himself  is  much  more  ra- 
tionalist than  mystic  (except  in  the  fanciful  interpretations  of  Scripture  to 
which  he  is  compelled  to  resort)  ;  but  his  system  was  developed,  three  cen- 
turies later,  into  an  extreme  and  revolutionary  mysticism. 

The  combination  of  Platonism  and  Christianity,  so  often  attempted,  aban- 
doned, and  renewed,  assumes  five  distinct  phases. 

I.  In  the  East,  with  Dionysius  ;  dualistic,  with  real  and  ideal  worlds 
apart,  removing  man  far  from  God  by  an  intervening  chain  of  hierarchic 
emanations. 

II.  In  the  West,  with  Scotus  Erigena  ;  abandoning  emanation  for  ever,  and 
taking  up  instead  the  idea  to  which  the  Germans  give  the  name  of  hiimaiience. 
God  regarded  more  as  the  inner  life  and  vital  substratum  of  the  universe,  than 
as  radiating  it  from  a  far-off  point  of  abstraction. 

III.  In  the  thirteenth  century,  at  Paris,  with  Amalric  of  Bena  and  David  of 
Dinant.  They  pronounce  God  the  material,  essential  cause  of  all  things, — not 
the  efficient  cause  merely.  The  Platonic  identification  of  the  velle  and  the  esse 
in  God.  David  and  his  sect  blend  with  their  pantheism  the  doctrine  that  under 
the  coming  new  dispensation — that  of  the  Holy  Ghost — all  believers  are  to 
regard  themselves  as  incarnations  of  God,  and  to  dispense  (as  men  filled  with 
the  Spirit)  with  all  sacraments  and  external  rites.     They  carry  the  spiritualizing 

L  2 


148  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  CJiurch.  [»>.  v. 

tendency  of  Erigena  to  a  monstrous  extreme,  claim  special  revelation,  declare 
the  real  resurrection  accomplished  in  themselves,  and  that  they  are  already  in 
heaven,  which  they  regard  as  a  state  and  not  a  place.  They  maintain  that  the 
good  are  sufficiently  rewarded  and  the  bad  adequately  punished  by  the  blessed- 
ness or  the  privation  they  inwardly  experience  in  time, — in  short,  that  retribution 
is  complete  on  this  side  the  grave,  and  heavy  woes,  accordingly,  will  visit  cor- 
rupt Christendom.  The  practical  extravagance  of  this  pantheism  was  repeated, 
ill  the  fourteenth  century,  by  fanatical  mystics  among  the  lower  orders. 

IV.  With  Eckart,  who  reminds  us  of  Plotinus.  The  '  Intuition'  of  Plo- 
tinus  is  Eckarfs  'Spark  of  liie  Soul,'  the  power  whereby  we  can  transcend 
the  sensible,  the  manifold,  the  temporal,  and  merge  ourselves  in  the  change- 
less One.  At  the  height  of  this  attainment,  the  mystic  of  Plotinus  and  the 
mystic  of  Eckart  find  the  same  God,— that  is,  the  same  blank  abstraction, 
above  being  and  above  attributes.  But  with  Plotinus  such  escape  from  finite 
consciousness  is  possible  only  in  certain  favoured  intervals  of  ecstasy.  PIckart, 
however  (whose  very  pantheism  is  the  exaggeration  of  a  Christian  truth  beyond 
the  range  of  Plotinus),  will  have  man  realize  habitually  his  oneness  with  the 
Infinite.  According  to  him,  if  a  man  by  self-a'oandonment  attains  this  con- 
sciousness, God  has  realized  Himself  within  him— has  brought  forth  his  Son- 
has  evolved  his  Spirit.  Such  a  man's  knowledge  of  God  is  God's  knowledge  of 
Himself.  For  all  spirit  is  one.  To  distinguish  between  the  divine  ground  of 
the  soul  and  the  Divinity  is  to  disintegrate  the  indivisible  Universal  Spirit — is 
to  be  far  from  God — is  to  stand  on  the  lower  ground  of  finite  misconception, 
within  the  limits  of  transitory  Appearance.  The  true  child  of  God  '  breaks 
through'  such  distinction  to  the  '  Oneness.'  Thus,  creation  and  redemption  are 
resolved  into  a  necessary  process — the  evolution  and  involution  of  Godhead. 
Yet  this  form  of  mediaeval  pantheism  appears  to  advantage  when  we  compare 
it  with  that  of  ancient  or  of  modern  times.  The  pantheism  of  the  Greek  took 
refuge  in  apathy  from  Fate.  The  pantheism  of  the  present  day  is  a  plea  for 
self-will.  But  that  of  Eckart  is  half  redeemed  by  a  sublime  disinterestedness,  a 
confiding  abnegation  of  all  choice  or  preference,  which  betrays  the  presence'of 
a  measure  of  Christian  element  altogether  inconsistent  with  the  basis  of  his 
philosophy. 

V.  With  Tauler  and  the  '  German  Theology.'  This  is  the  best,  indisputably, 
of  all  the  forms  assumed  by  the  combination  in  question.  The  Platonism  is 
practically  absorbed  in  the  Christianity.  Tauler  speaks  of  the  ideal  existence  of 
the  soul  in  God — of  the  loss  of  our  nameless  Ground  in  the  unknown  Godhead, 
and  we  find  language  in  the  Theologia  Germaiiica  concerning  God  as  the  sub- 
stance of  ail  things— concerning  the  partial  and  the  Perfect,  the  manifold  and 
the  One,  which  might  be  pantheistically  construed.  But  such  interpretation 
would  be  most  unfair,  and  is  contradicted  by  the  whole  tenour  both  of  the  ser- 
mons and  the  treatise.  An  apprehension  of  the  nature  of  sin  so  searching  and 
profound  as  that  in  the  'Theology,'  is  impossible  to  pantheism.  Luther  could 
see  therein  only  most  Christian  theism.  These  mystics  still  employed  some  of 
the  terms  transmitted  by  a  revered  philosophy.  Tauler  cites  with  deference  the 
names  of  Dionysius,  Proclus,  and  Plotinus.  This  mysticism  clothes  its  thought 
with  fragments  from  the  old  philosopher's  cloak— but  the  heart  and  body  belong 
to  the  school  of  Christ.  With  Dionysius,  and  even  with  Erigena,  man  seems  to 
need  but  a  process  of  approximation  to  the  divine  subsistence— a  rise  in  the 
scale  of  being  by  becoming  quant itativelyx2X\\Q.x  than  qualitatively  more.  With 
the  German  mystics  he  must  be  altogether  unmade  and  born  anew.  To  shift 
from  one  degree  of  illumination  to  another  somewhat  higher,  is  nothing  in  their 
iyes,  for  the  need  lies  not  in  the  understanding,  but  in  heart  and  will.  Ac- 
cording to  them,  man  must  stand  virtually  in  heaven  or  hell— be  God's  or  the 


c.  I.]  Bernard.  I49 

devil's.  The  Father  of  our  spirits  is  not  relegated  from  men  by  ecclesiastical 
or  angelic  functionaries,  but  nearer  to  every  one,  clerk  or  hiy,  gentle  or  simple, 
than  he  is  to  hmiself.  So  the  exclusiveness  and  the  frigid  inteliectiialism  so 
characteristic  of  the  ancient  ethnic  ])hilosophy,  has  vanished  from  the  Teutonic 
mysticism.  Plato  helps  rather  than  liarms  by  giving  a  vantage  ground  and 
defence  to  the  more  true  and  subjective,  as  opposed  to  a  merely  institutional 
Christianity. 

Both  Eckart  and  the  Theologia  Gennaiiica  would  have  man  '  break 
through'  and  transcend  'distinction.'  But  it  is  true,  with  slight  exception, 
that  the  distincrions  Eckart  would  escape  are  natural  ;  those  which  tiie 
'  Theology'  would  surpass,  for  the  most  part  artificial.  Tiie  asceticism  of  both 
IS  excessive.  The  self-reduction  of  Eckart  is,  however,  more  metaphysical 
than  moral;  that  of  the  '  Tlieology'  moral  essentially.  Both  would  say, 
the  soul  of  the  regenerate  man  is  one  with  Cjod — cannot  be  separated  from 
Him.  But  only  Eckart  would  say,  such  soul  is  not  distinct  from  God. 
Both  would  essay  to  pass  from  the  Nature  to  the  Being  of  God — from  his 
manifested  Existence  to  his  Essence,  and  they  both  declare  that  our  nature 
has  its  being  in  the  divine.  But  such  assertion,  with  Tauler  and  the  Theolugia 
Gennaiiica,  by  no  means  deifies  man.  It  is  but  the  Platonic  expression  of  a 
great  Christian  doctrine — the  real  Fatherhood  of  God. 

Note  to  page  142. 
Itaque  turn  per  totam  fere  Galliam  in  civitatibus,  vicis,  et  castellis,  a 
scholaribus,  non  solum  intra  scholas,  sed  etiam  triviatim  ;  nee  a  litteratis,  aut 
provectis  fantum,  sed  a  pueris  et  simplicibus,  aut  certe  stultis,  de  sancta 
Trinitate,  quae  Deus  est,  disputaretur,  &c. — Epist.  337,  and  comp.  Epist.  332. 
Bernard  at  first  refused  to  encounter  Abelard,  not  simply  because  from  his  in- 
experience in  such  combats  he  was  little  fitted  to  cope  with  that  dialectic 
Goliath — a  man  of  war  from  his  youth — but  because  such  discussions  were  in 
themselves,  he  thought,  an  indignity  to  the  faith. — Epist.  1S9.  Abelard  he 
denounces  a^  wrong,  not  only  in  his  heretical  results,  but  in  principle, — Cum 
ea  ratione  nititur  exploraie,  quae  pia  mens  fidei  vivacitate  apprehendit.  Fides 
piorum  credit,  non  discutit.  Sed  iste  Deum  habens  suspectum,  credere  non 
vult,  nisi  quod  prius  ratione  discusserit. — Epist.  33S. 

Note  to  page  143. 

In  the  eyes  both  of  Anselm  and  Bernard,  to  deny  the  reality  of  Ideas  is  to 
cut  off  our  only  escape  from  the  gross  region  of  sense.  Neither  iaitli  nor 
reason  have  then  left  them  any  basis  of  operation.  We  attain  to  truth  only 
through  the  medium  of  Ideas,  by  virtue  of  our  essential  relationship  to  the 
Divine  Source  of  Ideas — the  Infinite  Truth.  That  Supreme  Truth  which  gives 
to  existing  things  their  reality  is  also  the  source  of  true  thoughts  in  our  minds. 
Thus  our  knowledge  is  an  illumination  dependent  on  the  state  of  the  heait 
towards  God.  On  this  principle  all  doubt  must  be  criminal,  and  every  heresy 
the  offspring,  not  of  a  bewildered  brain,  but  of  a  wicked  heart. 

The  fundamental  maxim  of  the  mediasval  religio-philosophy— Invisibilia  non 
decipiunt,  was  fertile  in  delusions.  It  led  men  to  reject,  as  untrustworthy,  the 
testimony  of  sense  and  of  experience.  Thus,  in  the  transubstantiation  con- 
troversy of  the  ninth  century,  Realism  and  Superstition  conquered  together, 
It  taught  them  to  deduce  all  knowledge  from  certain  mental  abstractions, 
Platonic  Ideas  and  Aristotelian  Forms.  Thus  Bonaventura  (who  exhibits 
this  tendency  at  its  height)  resolves  all  science  into  union  with  God.  The 
successive  attainment  of  various  kinds  of  knowledge  is,  in  his  system,  an 
approximation,  stage  above  stage,  to  God — a  scaling  of  the  heights  o  lUumina- 


150  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b.  v. 

tion,  as  we  are  more  closely  united  with  the  Divine  Word — the  repertory  of 
Ideas.  Thus,  again,  the  Scriptures  were  studied  by  the  schoolmen  less  as  a 
practical  guide  for  the  present  life  than  as  so  much  material  whence  they  might 
deduce  metaphysical  axioms  and  propositions— discover  more  of  those  divine 
abstractions  which  they  regarded  as  the  seminal  principles  of  all  thought  and 
all  existence.  They  were  constantly  mistaking  results  which  could  only  have 
been  attained  by  revelation  or  tradition  from  witliout,  for  truth  evolved  n-om 
within  the  depths  of  the  finite  mind,  by  virtue  of  its  immediate  commerce  with  the 
Infinite.  Anselm  found  no  difficulty  in  assuming  that  the  God  of  his  outological 
proof  was  identical  with  the  God  of  the  Bible. 

Note  to  page  144. 

Thus,  speaking  of  the  angelic  state,  he  says, — Creatura  coeli  ilia  est,  prassto 
habens  per  quod  ista  intueatur.  Videt  Verbum,  et  in  Verbo  facta  per  Verbum. 
Nee  opus  habet  ex  his  quae  facta  sunt,  factoris  notitiam  mendicare. — De  Consid. 
V.  i.,  and  comp.  Scrm.  in  Cantica,  v.  4. 

The  three  kinds  of  meditation,  or  stages  of  Christian  proficiency,  referred  to 
in  the  text,  Bernard  calls  coiisideratio  dispcnsaiiva,  cestimativa,  ajidspcculativa. 
The  last  is  thus  defined : — Speculativa  est  consideratio  se  in  se  colligens,  et, 
quantum  divinitus  adjuvatur,  rebus  humanis  eximens  ad  contemplandum  Deum. 
He  who  reaches  it  is  among  the  greatest  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  At 
omnium  maxlmus,  qui  spreto  ipso  usu  reruiu  et  sensuum,  quantum  quidem 
humanas  fragilitati  fas  est,  non  ascensoriis  gradibus,  sed  inopinatis  excessibus, 
avolare  interdum  contemplando  ad  ilia  sublimia  consuevit.  Ad  hoc  ultimum 
genus  illos  pertinere  reor  excessus  Pauli.  Excessus  non  ascensus  :  nam  rap- 
tum  potius  fuisse,  quam  ascendisse  ipse  se  perhibet. — De  Co?isid.  v.  ii.  In  one 
of  the  Sermons  on  the  Canticles,  Bernard  discour.ses  at  more  length  on  this  kind 
of  exaltation.     Proinde  et  ego  non  absurde  sponsae  exstasim  vocaverim  mortem, 

quas  tamen  non  vita,  sed  vitae  eripiat  laqueis Excedente  quippe  anima, 

ctsi  non  vita  certe  vitae  sensu,  necesse  est  etiam  ut  nee  vitae  tentatis  sentiatur. 
....  Utinam  hac  morte  frequenter  cadam.  .  .  .  Bona  mors,  quas  vitam 
non  aufert,  sed  transfer!  in  melius  ;  bona,  qua  non  corpus  cadit,  sed  anima 
sublevatur.  Verum  haec  hominum  est.  Sed  moriatur  anima  mea  morte  etiam 
si  did  potest,  Angelorum,  ut  presentium  memoriaexcedens  rerum  se  inferiorum 

corporearumque  non   modo    cupiditatibus,  sed  et  similitudinibtts  exuat 

Talis,  ut  opinor,  excessus,  aut  tantum,  aut  maxime  contemplatio  dicitur. 
Rerum  etenim  cupiditatibus  vivendo  non  teneri,  humanae  virtutis  est ;  corporum 

vero  similitudinibus  speculando  non  involvi,  angelicae  puritatis  est Pro- 

fecisti,  separasti  te  ;  sed  nonduni  elongasti,  nisi  et  irruentia  undique  phantas- 
mata  corporearum  similitudinum  transvolare  mentis  puritate  praevaleas. 
Hucusque  noli  tibi  promittere  requiem. — In  Cantica,  Senn.  lii.  4,  5. 

Note  to  page  144. 
Fateor    et    mihi    adventasse    Verbum,    in    insipientia    dico,     et    pluries. 
Cumque  saepius  intraverit  ad  me,  non  sensi  aliquoties  cum  intravit.     Adesse 
sensi,  adfuisse  recorder,   interdum  et  praesentias  potui  introitum  ejus,  sentire 

nunquam,  sed  ne  exitum  quidem Qua  igitur  introivit?     An  forte  nee 

ntroivit  quidem,  quia  non  deforis  venit  ?  Neque  enim  est  unum  aliquid  ex  iis 
que  foris  sunt.  Porro  nee  deintra  me  venit  quoniam  bonum  est,  et  scio  quoniam 
non  est  in  me  bonum.  Ascendi  etiam  superius  meum  :  et  ecce  supra  hoc 
Verbum  eminens.  Ad  inferius  quoque  meum  curiosus  explorator  descend!  : 
et  nihilominus  infra  inventum  est.     Si  foras  aspexi,  extra  onme  exterius  meum 

comperi  illud   esse  :    si   vero  intus,  et  ipsum   interius  erat Ita  igitur 

intrans  ad   me  aliquoties  Verbum  sponsus,    nullis    unquam   introitum  suum 


c,  I.]  Bernard.  i  5  i 

indiciis  innotescere  fecit,  non  voce,  non  specie,  non  incessu.  Nullis  denique 
suis  motibus  compcrtum  est  inihi,  nullis  meis  sensibus  illapsum  penetralibus 
meis  :  tantum  ex  motu  cordis,  sicut  proefatus  sum,  intellexi  prsesentiani  ejus  ; 
et  ex  fuga  vitiorum  carnaliumque  compressione  affectuum,  &c. — In  Caittica, 
Scrm.  Ixxiv.  5,  6.  'Ihe  metaphors  of  Bernard  are  actual  sounds,  sights,  and 
fra<^rances  with  St.  Theresa.  From  this  sensuous  extreme  his  practical 
devotion  is  as  far  removed,  on  the  one  side,  as  from  the  cold  abstraction  of 
Dionysius  on  the  other.  His  contemplation  is  no  staring  at  the  Divine  Essence 
till  we  are  blind— no  oblivion  or  disdain  of  outward  means.  We  see  God,  he 
says,  not  as  He  is,  but  as  He  wills— sicuti  vult  non  sicuti  est.  So  when 
describing  that  ascent  of  the  soul  to  God,  or  descent  of  God  into  the  soul,  which 

constitutes  Union,  he  says,— In  Spiritu  fit  ista  conjunctio Non  ergo  sic 

affecta  et  sic  dilecta  (anima)  contenta  erit  omnino  vel  ilia,  quae  multis  per  ea 
quce  facta  sunt  ;  vel,  ilia  qua;  paucis  per  visa  et  somnia  facta  est  manifestatio 
sponsi,  nisi  et  speciali  prasrogativa  intimis  ilium  afifectibus  atque  ipsis  meduUis 
cordis  coelitus  illapsum  suscipiat,  habtatque  preesto  quern  desiderat  non  figura- 
tum,  sed  infusum  :  non  apparentem  sed  afficientem  ;  nee  dubium  quin  eo 
jucundiorem,  quo  intus,  non  foris.  Verbum  nempe  est,  non  sonans,  sed 
penetrans  ;  non  loqnax,  sed  efficax  ;  non  obstrepens  auribus,  sed  affectibus 
blandiens,  &c. — In  Cantica,  Serm.  xxxi.  ;  6  and  i.  Comp.  also  his  remarks  at 
the  close  of  the  sermon,  on  the  difference  between  faith  and  sight,  p.  2868. 

Bernard  describes  three  kisses  of  tlie  soul,— the  kiss  of  the  feet  of  God,  of  the 
hand,  and  of  the  mouth.  [Semi,  de  divcrsh,  87,  and  In  Cantica,  Scrm.  iv.) 
'J'his  is  his  fanciful  way  of  characterising,  by  the  elaboration  of  a  single  figura- 
tive phrase  of  Scripture,  the  progress  of  the  soul  througli  conversion  and  grace 
to  perfection,  Here,  as  in  so  many  instances,  his  meaning  is  substantially 
correct ;  it  is  the  expression  which  is  objectionable.  He  is  too  much  in  earnest 
for  the  artificial  gradations  and  metaphysical  refinements  of  later  mysticism. 
Compare  him,  in  this  respect,  with  John  of  the  Cross.  Bernard  would  have 
rejected  as  unprofitable  those  descriptions  of  the  successive  absorption  of  the 
several  faculties  in  God;  those  manifold  kinds  of  prayer— prayers  of  quiet, 
prayers  of  union,  prayers  of  ecstasy,  with  their  impalpable  distinctions  ;  that 
analysis,  miraculously  achieved,  of  miraculous  ravishments,  detailed  at  such 
length  in  the  tedious  treatises  of  the  Spanish  mystics.  The  doctrine  taught  by 
Tohli  of  the  Cross,  that  God  compensates  the  faithful  for  the  mortification  of  the 
senses  by  sensuous  gratifications  of  a  supernatural  kind,  would  have  revolted  the 
more  pure  devotion  of  the  simple-minded  Abbot  of  Clairvaux.— See  La  Monh'e 
dii  Mont  Carmel,  livre  ii.  chapp.  16,  17  ;  pp.  457,  &c.  .    .^       .     , 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  highest  kind  of  Consideratio  is  identical, 
in  Bernard's  phraseology,  with  Contemplatio  ;  and  the  terms  are  thus  often  used 
intercliangeablv.  Generally,  Consideratio  is  applied  to  inquiry,  Contemplatio 
to  intuition.     De  Consid.  lib.  ii.  cap.  2. 

Note  to  page  146. 

See  Vita,  ii.  cap.  27,  where  his  biographer  gives  Bernard's  own  modest 
estimate  of  these  wonders. 

Wide,  indeed,  is  the  difference  between  the  spiritual  mysticism  of  Bernard 
and  the'gross  materialism  and  arrogant  pretension  which  characterise  the  vision 
and  the  prophecy  to  which  Hildegard  laid  claim.  The  morbid  ambition  of 
theurgic  mvsticism  received  a  new  impulse  from  the  sanction  afforded  herby 
Bernard  and  the  contemporary  popes.  Bernard  makes  no  doubt  of  the  reaiuy 
of  her  gifts,  and  desires  a  place  in  her  prayers.  [Epist.  366.)  He  did  not  foresee 
that  the  most  extravagant  and  sensuous  mysticism  must  soon  of  necessity  dis- 
place the  simpler  and  less  dazzling.     He  would  be  afraid  of  taking  his  place 


1  5  2  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b.  v. 

with  Rationalist  mockers,  and  a  superstitious  awe  would  readily  persuade  him 
that  it  was  better  to  believe  than  to  doubt.  When  emperors  and  popes  cor- 
responded on  familiar  terms  with  the  seeress  ;  when  haughty  nobles  and  learned 
ecclesiastics  sought  cotmsel  at  her  oracle  concerning  future  events,  and  even  for 
the  decision  of  learned  questions  ;  when  all  she  said  in  answer  was  delivered  as 
subject  to  and  in  the  interest  of  the  Church  Catholic — was  often  the  very  echo 
of  Bernard's  own  warnings  and  exhortations — who  was  he,  that  he  should  pre- 
sume to  limit  the  operations  of  the  Spirit  of  God?  Many  of  Hildegard's 
prophecies,  denouncing  the  ecclesiastical  abuses  of  the  day,  were  decidedly 
reformatory  in  their  tendency.  In  this  resjject  she  is  the  forerunner  of  the  Abbot 
Joachim  of  Calabria,  and  of  St.  Brigitta,  whose  prophetic  utterances  startled  the 
corrupt  Church  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  In  her  supernatural 
gift  of  language,  her  attendant  divine  radiance,  and  her  fantastic  revelations, 
she,  like  her  friend  Elizabeth  of  Schonau  (who  had  an  angel  to  wait  upon  her, 
and  saw  the  eleven  thousand  \irgins),  prepares  tiie  way  for  Catharine  of  Siena, 
Angela  of  Foligai,  and  St.  Theresa. 


CHAPTER    II. 


l.icht  und  Farbe. 


Wohne,  du  ewiglich  Eines,  dort  bei  deni  ewiglich  Einen  I 
Farbe,  du  wechselnde,  komm'  freundlich  zum  Menschen  herab  !' 

SCHILLKK. 

/^N    the   next  evening  of  meeting,  Gower  commenced  as 

^-^     follows  his  promised    paper  on  Hugo  and  Richard  ot 

St.  Victor. 

Hugo  of  St.   Victor. 

The  celebrated  School  of  St.  Victor  (so  called  from  an 
ancient  chapel  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris)  was  founded  by  William 
of  Champeaux  at  the  commencement  of  the  twelfth  century. 
This  veteran  dialectician  assumed  there  the  habit  of  the  regular 
canons  of  Augustine,  and  after  an  interval,  began  to  lecture 
once  more  to  the  students  who  flocked  to  his  retirement.  In 
I  [  14,  king  and  pope  combined  to  elevate  the  priory  to  an 
abbacy.  Bishops  and  nobles  enriched  it  with  their  gifts.  The 
canons  enjoved  the  highest  repute  for  sanctity  and  learning  in 
that  golden  age  of  the  canonical  institute.  St.  Victor  colonized 
Italy,  England,  Scotland,  and  Lower  Saxony,  with  establish- 
ments which  regarded  as  their  parent  the  mighty  pile  of  build- 
ing on  the  outskirts  of  Paris.  Within  a  hundred  years  from  its 
foundation  it  numbered  as  its  offspring  thirty  abbeys  and  more 
than  eighty  priories. 

Hugo  of  St.  Victor  was  born  in  1097,  of  a  noble  Saxon 
family.       His  boyhood  was  passed  at  the  convent  of  Hamers- 

"^  Light  and  C'ofo//;-.— Light,  thou  One  Eternal ;  Colour,  thou  changeful, 
eternally  one,  dwell  above  by  the  great      in  love  come  to  Humanity  down  1 


154  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  \y..  v. 

leben.  There  he  gave  promise  of  his  future  eminence.  His 
thirst  after  information  of  every  kind  was  insatiable.  The 
youth  might  often  have  been  seen  walking  alone  in  the  convent 
garden,  speaking  and  gesticulating,  imagining  himself  advocate, 
preacher,  or  disputant.  Every  evening  he  kept  rigid  account 
of  his  gains  in  knowledge  during  the  day.  The  floor  of  his 
room  was  covered  with  geometrical  figures  traced  in  charcoal. 
Many  a  winter's  night,  he  says,  he  was  waking  between  vigils 
in  anxious  study  of  a  horoscope.  Many  a  rude  experiment  in 
musical  science  did  he  try  with  strings  stretched  across  a 
board.  Even  while  a  novice,  he  began  to  write.  Attracted 
by  the  reputation  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Victor,  he  enrolled  his 
name  among  the  regular  canons  there.  Not  long  after  his 
arrival,  the  emissaries  of  an  archdeacon,  worsted  in  a  suit  with 
the  chapter,  murdered  the  prior,  Thomas.  Hugo  was  elected 
to  succeed  him  in  the  office  of  instructor.  He  taught  philo- 
sophy, rhetoric,  and  theology.  He  seldom  quitted  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  convent,  and  never  aspired  to  farther  preferment. 
He  closed  a  peaceful  and  honoured  life  at  the  age  of  forty- 
four,  leaving  behind  him  those  ponderous  tomes  of  divinity  to 
which  Aquinas  and  Vincent  of  Beauvais  acknowledge  their 
obligations,  and  which  gained  for  their  author  the  name  of  a 
second  Augustine." 

Hitherto  mysticism,  in  the  person  of  Bernard,  has  repudiated 
scholasticism.  In  Hugo,  and  his  successor  Richard,  the  foes 
are  reconciled.  Bonaventura  in  the  thirteenth,  and  Gerson  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  are  great  names  in  the  same  province. 
Indeed,  throughout  the  middle  ages,  almost  everything  that 
merits  the  title  of  mystical  theology  is  characterized  by  some 
such  endeavour  to  unite  the  contemplation  of  the  mystic  with 
the  dialectics  of  the  schoolman.      There   was   good  in   the 

-  Liebner's  Hugo  of  St.  Victor,   p.      is  given  by  Hugo  in  his  Didascalion. 
21.— This  account  of  his  early  studies 


c.  2.J        Mysticism  and  Scholasticism  Combined.         i  5  5 

attempt.  Mysticism  lost  much  of  its  vagueness,  and  scholas- 
ticism much  of  its  frigidity. 

Hugo  was  well  fitted  by  temperament  to  mediate  between 
the  extreme  tendencies  of  his  time.  Utterly  destitute  of  that 
daring  originality  which  placed  Erigena  at  least  two  centuries 
'  1  advance  of  his  age,  his  very  gentleness  and  caution  would 
alone  have  rendered  him  more  moderate  in  his  views  and  more 
catholic  in  sympathy  than  the  intense  and  vehement  Bernard. 
Hugo,  far  from  proscribing  science  and  denouncing  speculation, 
called  in  the  aid  of  the  logical  gymnastics  of  his  day  to  disci- 
pline the  mind  for  the  adventurous  enterprise  of  the  mystic.  If 
he  regarded  with  dislike  the  idle  word-warfare  ot  scholastic 
ingenuity,  he  was  quite  as  little  disposed  to  bid  common  sense 
a  perpetual  farewell  among  the  cloudiest  realms  of  mysticism. 
His  style  is  clear,  his  spirit  kindly,  his  judgment  generally 
impartial.  It  is  refreshing  in  those  days  of  ecclesiastical  domi- 
nation to  meet  with  at  least  a  single  mind  to  whom  that 
Romanist  ideal — an  absolute  uniformity  in  religious  opinion — 
appeared  both  impossible  and  undesirable.^ 

A  few  words  may  present  the  characteristic  outlines  of  his 
mysticism.  It  avails  itself  of  the  aid  of  speculation  to  acquire 
a  scientific  form — in  due  subjection,  of  course,  to  the  authority 
of  the  Church.  It  will  ground  its  claim  on  a  surer  tenure  than 
mere  religious  emotion  or  visionary  reverie.  Hugo,  with  all  his 
contemporaries,  reverenced  the  Pseudo-Dioiiysius.  His  more 
devout  and  practical  spirit  laboured  at  a  huge  commentary  on 
the  Heavenly  Hierarchy,  like  a  good  angel,  condemned  for  some 
sin  to  servitude  under  a  paynim  giant.  In  the  hands  of  his  com- 
mentator, Dionysius  becomes  more  scriptural  and  human — for 
the  cloister,  even  edifying,  but  remains  as  uninteresting  as  ever. 

Hugo  makes  a  threefold  division  of  our  faculties.  First,  and 
lowest,   Cogitatio.     A  stage  higher  stands  MedHatio  :  by  this 

3  Schmid,  Der  Mysticismus  des  M.  A.,  p.  303, 


15*5  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [b. 


he  means  reflection,  investigation.  Third,  and  highest,  ranges 
Contemplatio :  in  this  state  the  mind  possesses  in  light  the 
truth  which,  in  the  preceding,  it  desired  and  groped  after  in 
twihght/ 

He  compares  this  spiritual  process  to  the  appHcation  of  fire 
to  green  wood.  It  kindles  with  difficulty;  clouds  of  smoke 
arise  ;  a  flame  is  seen  at  intervals,  flasliing  out  here  and  there  ; 
as  the  fire  gains  strength,  it  surrounds,  it  pierces  the  fuel ;  pre- 
sently it  leaps  and  roars  in  triumph— the  nature  of  the  wood 
is  being  transformed  into  the  nature  of  fire.  Then,  the  struggle 
over,  the  crackling  ceases,  the  smoke  is  gone,  there  is  le'ft'  a 
tranquil,  friendly  brightness,  for  the  master-element  has  subdued 
all  mto  itself.  So,  says  Hugo,  do  sin  and  grace  contend  ;  and 
the  smoke  of  trouble  aiKl  anguish  hangs  over  the  strife.  But 
when  grace  grows  stronger,  and  the  soul's  eye  clearer,  and 
truth  pervades  and  swallows  up  the  kindling,  aspiring  nature, 
then  comes  holy  calm,  and  love  is  all  in  all.  Save  God  in  the 
heart,  nothing  of  self  is  left.* 

Looking  through  this  and  other  metaphors  as  best  we  may, 
we  discover  that  Contemplation  has  two  provinces— a  lower  and 
a  higher.  The  lower  degree  of  contemplation,  which  ranks 
next  above  Meditation,  is  termed  Speculation.  It  is  distinct 
from  Contemplation  proper,  in  its  strictest  signification.  The 
attribute  of  Meditation  is  Care.  The  brow  is  heavy  with 
inquiring  thought,  for  the  darkness  is  mingled  with  the  light. 
The  attribute  of  Speculation  is  Admiration— Wonder.  In  it  the 
soul  ascends,  as  it  were,  a  watch-tower  (specuia),  and  surveys 
everything  earthly.  On  this  stage  stood  the  Preacher  when  he 
beheld  the  sorrow  and  the  glory  of  the  world,  and  pronounced 
all  things  human  Vanity.  To  this  elevation,  wlience  he  philo- 
sophizes concerning  all  finite  things,  man  is  raised  by  the  faith, 

*  Comp.  De  Sacmmcntis,  lib.  v.  p.        of  his  works,  Cologne    1617  ) 
X.  c.  4  (torn.  111.  p.  411.  Garzon  sedition  s  gee  Liebner,  p.  315. 


2.]  The  Eye  of  Contemplation.  157 


the  feeling,  and  the  ascetic  practice  of  rehgion.  Speculative 
illumination  is  the  reward  of  devotion.  But  at  the  loftiest 
elevation  man  beholds  all  things  in  (iod.  Contemplation,  in  its 
narrower  and  highest  sense,  is  immediate  intuition  of  the  Infinite. 
The  attribute  of  this  stage  is  Blessedness. 

As  a  mystic,  Hugo  cannot  be  satisfied  with  that  mediate  and 
approximate  apprehension  of  the  Divine  Nature  which  here  on 
earth  should  amply  satisfy  all  who  Hsten  to  Scripture  and  to 
Reason.  Augustine  had  told  him  of  a  certain  spiritual  sense, 
or  eye  of  the  soul.  This  he  makes  the  organ  of  his  mysticism. 
Admitting  the  incomprehensibility  of  the  Supreme,  yet  chafing 
as  he  does  at  the  limitations  of  our  finite  nature.  Faith — which 
is  here  the  natural  resource  of  Reason — fails  to  content  him. 
He  leaps  to  the  conclusion  that  there  must  be  some  innnediate 
intuition  of  Deity  by  means  of  a  separate  faculty  vouchsafed  for 
the  purpose. 

You  have  sometimes  seen  from  a  hill-side  a  valley,  over  the 
undulating  floor  of  which  there  has  been  laid  out  a  heavy  mantle 
of  mist.  The  spires  of  the  churches  rise  above  it — you  seem  to 
catch  the  glistening  of  a  roof  or  of  a  vane — here  and  there  a 
jiigher  house,  a  little  eminence,  or  some  tree-tops,  are  seen, 
islanded  in  the  white  vapour,  but  the  lower  and  connecting 
objects,  the  linking  lines  of  the  roads,  the  plan  and  foundation 
of  the  whole,  are  completely  hidden.  Hugo  felt  that,  with  all 
our  culture,  yea,  with  Aristotle  to  boot,  revealed  truth  was  seen 
by  us  somewhat  thus  imperfectly.  No  doubt  certain  great  facts 
and  truths  stand  out  clear  and  prominent,  but  there  is  a  great 
deal  at  their  basis,  connecting  them,  attached  to  them,  which  is 
impervious  to  our  ordinary  faculties.  We  are,  in  fact,  so 
lamentably  far  from  knowing  all  about  them.  Is  there  not 
some  power  of  vision  to  be  attained  which  may  pierce  these 
clouds,  lay  bare  to  us  tliese  relationships,  nay,  even  more,  be  to 
us  like  the  faculty  conferred  by  Asmodeus,  and  render  the  very 


1 5 '8  Mysticism  in  tJie  Latin  CJnircJt.  [b. 


roofs  transparent,  so  that  from  topstone  to  foundation,  within 
and  without,  we  may  gaze  our  fill?  And  if  to  realize  this 
wholly  be  too  much  for  sinful  creatures,  yet  may  not  the  wise 
and  good  approach  such  vision,  and  attain  as  the  meed  of  their 
faith,  even  here,  a  superhuman  elevation,  and  in  a  glance  at 
least  at  the  Heavenly  Truth  unveiled,  escape  the  trammels  ot 
the  finite  ? 

Such  probably  was  the  spirit  of  the  question  which  possessed, 
with  a  ceaseless  importunity,  the  minds  of  men,  ambitious  alike 
to  define  with  the  schoolman  and  to  gaze  with  the  seer.  Hugo 
answers  that  the  eye  of  Contemplation^ — closed  by  sin,  but 
opened  more  or  less  by  grace — furnishes  the  power  thus  deside- 
rated/ But  at  this,  his  highest  point,  he  grasps  a  shadow  in- 
stead of  the  substance.  Something  within  the  mind  is  mistaken 
for  a  manifestation  from  without.  A  mental  creation  is  sub- 
stituted for  that  Divine  Existence  which  his  rapture  seems  to 
reveal.  He  asserts,  however,  that  this  Eye  beholds  what  the 
eye  of  sense  and  the  eye  of  reason  cannot  see,  what  is  both 
within  us  and  above  us — God.  Within  us,  he  cries,  is  both  what 
we  must  flee  and  whither  we  must  flee.  The  highest  and  the 
inmost  are,  so  far,  identical.'  Thus  do  the  pure  in  heart  see 
God.  In  such  moments  the  soul  is  transported  beyond  sense 
and  reason,  to  a  state  similar  to  that  enjoyed  by  angelic  natures. 
The  contemplative  life  is  prefigured  by  the  ark  in  the  deluge. 
Without  are  waves,  and  the  dove  can  find  no  rest.  As  the 
holy  ship  narrowed  toward  the  summit,  so  doth  this  life  of 
seclusion  ascend  from  the  manifold  and  changeful  to  the  Divine 
Immutable  Unity. 

The  simplification  of  the  soul  he  inculcates  is  somewhat 
analogous  to  the  Haplosis  of  the  Neo-Platonists.    All  sensuous 

^  De  Sacrameniis,  lib.  i.  p.  i.  cap.  irradiet  :  et  jam  non  per  speculum  in 

12. — Quisquis  sic  ordinatus  est,  dignus  senigmate,  sed  in  scipsa  ut  ^j/ veritatem 

est    lumine    soils  :  ut   mente  sursum  agnoscat  et  sapiat. 

erecta  et  desiderio  in  superna  defixo  7  See  Note,  p.  170. 
lumen  summae  veritatis  contemplanti 


c.  2.]  Schoobnait  aiuf  Mystic.  159 


images  are  to  be  discarded  ;  we  must  concentrate  ourselves 
upon  the  inmost  source,  the  nude  essence  of  our  being.  He  is 
careful,  accordingly,  to  guard  against  the  delusions  of  the 
imagination.'  He  cautions  his  readers  lest  they  mistake  a  mere 
visionary  phantasm— some  shape  of  imaginary  glory,  for  a 
supernatural  manifestation  of  the  Divine  Nature  to  the  soul. 
His  mysticism  is  intellectual,  not  sensuous.  Too  practical  for 
a  sentimental  Quietism  or  any  of  its  attendant  effeminacies,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  too  orthodox  to  verge  on  pantheism,  his  mys- 
tical doctrine  displays  less  than  the  usual  proportion  of  extra- 
vagance, and  the  ardent  eloquence  pf  his  '  Praise  of  Love'  may 
find  an  echo  in  every  Christian  heart. 

Richard  of  St,  Victor. 

Now,  let  us  pass  on  to  Richard  of  St.  Victor.  He  was  a 
native  of  Scotland,  first  the  pupil  and  afterwards  the  successor 
of  Hugo.  Richard  was  a  man  whose  fearless  integrity  and 
energetic  character  made  themselves  felt  at  St.  Victor  not  less 
than  the  intellectual  subtilty  and  flowing  rhetoric  which  dis- 
tinguished his  prelections.  He  had  far  more  of  the  practical 
reformer  in  him  than  the  quiet  Hugo.  Loud  and  indignant  are 
his  rebukes  of  the  empty  disputation  of  the  mere  schoolman, — 
of  the  avarice  and  ambition  of  the  prelate.  His  soul  is  grieved 
that  there  should  be  men  who  blush  more  for  a  false  quantity 
than  for  a  sin,  and  stand  more  in  awe  of  Priscian  than  of 
Christ.'     Alas  !  he  exclaims,  how  many  come  to  the  cloister  to 

s  Tom  iii   p  356.— In  speaking  of  For  an  elaborate  account  of  his  entire 

the  days 'of  creation  and  of  the  ana-  theology,    the   reader    is    referred   to 

locrous   seasons  in   the    new  creation  Unhners  Hugo  voii  St.  I  ictor luiddie 

hhinman   he  says  that  as  God  first  riieologischai  Richtinigen  seiner  Zeit ; 


witnin,  nia.li,  iic  :3ay3  t.ii<3.t.  tw  ^^^^  *.^..w ,-,  ^ 

sw  the  light    that  it  was  good,  and  one  of  the  best  of  the  numerous  mono- 

ihen  divided  it  from  the  darkness,  so  graphs   German  scholarship   has  pro- 

wemust  first  try  the  spirit  and  examine  duced. 

our  light  with  care,  ere  we  part  it  from  9  RichanU  S.  Vutoris  0pp.  (Lyons, 

what  we  call  darkness,  since  Satan  can  1534) .  De  Preparatione  antnn  ad  con- 

assume  the  garb  of  an  angel  of  light.  iemplaUomm,  fol.  39. 


1 60  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  CJmrch.  [b.  v. 

seek  Christ,  and  find  lying  in  that  sepulchre  only  llie  linen 
clothes  of  your  formalism  !  How  many  mask  their  cowardice 
under  the  name  of  love,  and  let  every  abuse  run  riot  on  the 
plea  of  peace  !  How  many  others  call  their  hatred  of  indi- 
viduals hatred  of  iniquity,  and  think  to  be  righteous  cheaply  by 
mere  outcry  against  other  men's  sins  !  Complaints  like  these 
are  not  without  their  application  nearer  home." 

His  zeal  did  not  confine  itself  to  words.  In  the  year  1162  he 
was  made  prior.  Ervisius  the  abbot  was  a  man  of  worldly  spirit, 
though  his  reputation  had  been  high  when  he  entered  on  his 
office.  He  gradually  relaxed  all  discipline,  persecuted  the  God- 
fearing brethren,  and  favoured  flatterers  and  spies  ;  he  was  a 
very  Dives  in  sumptuousness,  and  the  fair  name  of  St.  Victor 
suffered  no  small  peril  at  his  hands.  The  usual  evils  of  broken 
monastic  rule  were  doubtless  there,  though  little  is  specified — 
canons  going  in  and  out,  whither  they  would,  without  inquiry, 
accounts  in  confusion,  sacristy  neglected,  weeds  literally  and 
spiritually  growing  in  holy  places,  wine-bibbing  and  scandal 
carried  on  at  a  lamentable  rate,  sleepy  lethargy  and  noisy  brawl, 
the  more  shameful  because  unpunished.  Ervisius  was  good  at 
excuses,  and  of  course  good  for  nothing  else.  If  complaints 
were  made  to  him,  it  was  always  that  cellarer,  that  pittanciar,  or 
that  refectorarius — never  his  fault.  These  abuses  must  soon 
draw  attention  from  without.  Richard  and  the  better  sort  are 
glad.  The  pope  writes  to  the  king  about  the  sad  accounts  he 
hears.  Bishops  bestir  themselves.  Orders  come  from  Rome 
forbidding  the  abbot  to  take  any  step  without  the  consent  of  the 
majority  of  the  chapter.  Richard's  position  is  delicate,  between 
his  vow  of  obedience  to  his  superior  and  the  good  of  the  con- 
vent. But  he  plays  his  part  like  a  man.  An  archbishop  is 
sent  to  St.  Victor  to  hold  a  commission  of  inquiry.  All  is 
curiosity  and  bustle,  alarm  and  hope  among  the  canons,  inuo- 
'"  Ihid.  cap.  xli. 


c.  2.J  Schoolman  and  Mystic.  1 6 1 

cent  and  guilty.  At  last,  Ervisius,  after  giving  them  much 
trouble,  is  induced  to  resign.  They  choose  an  able  successor, 
harmony  and  order  gradually  return,  and  Richard,  having  seen 
the  abbey  prosperous  once  more,  dies  in  the  following  year." 

In  the  writings  of  Richard,  as  compared  with  those  of  Hugo, 
I  find  that  what  belongs  to  the  schoolman  has  received  a  more 
elaborate  and  complex  development,  while  what  belongs  to  the 
mystic  has  also  attained  an  ampler  and  more  prolific  growth. 
All  the  art  of  the  scholastic  is  there — the  endless  ramification 
and  subdivision  of  minute  distinctions  ;  all  the  intellectual  for- 
tification of  the  time — the  redoubts,  ravelins,  counterscarps,  and 
bastions  of  dry,  stern  logic  ;  and  among  these,  within  their  lines 
and  at  last  above  them  all,  is  seen  an  almost  oriental  luxuriance 
of  fancy  and  of  rhetoric — palm  and  pomegranate,  sycamore  and 
cypress,  solemn  cedar  shadows,  the  gloom  in  the  abysses  of  the 
soul, — luscious  faiit  and  fragrant  flowers,  the  triumphs  of  its 
ecstasy,  all  blissful  with  the  bloom  and  odours  of  the  upper 
Paradise.  He  is  a  master  alike  in  the  serviceable  science  of 
self-scrutiny,  and  in  the  imaginary  one  of  self-transcendence. 
His  works  afiford  a  notable  example  of  that  fantastic  use  of 
Scripture  prevalent  throughout  the  Middle  Age.  His  psycho- 
logy, his  metaphysics,  his  theology,  are  all  extracted  from  the 
most  unlikely  quarters  in  the  Bible  by  allegorical  interpretation. 
Every  logical  abstraction  is  attached  to  some  personage  oi 
object  in  the  Old  Testament  history,  as  its  authority  and  type. 
Rachel  and  Leah  are  Reason  and  Affection.  Bilhah  and  Zilpah 
are  Imagination  and  Sense.  His  divinity  is  embroidered  on 
the  garments  of  Aaron,  engraven  on  the  sides  of  the  ark,  hung 
on  the  pins  and  rings  of  the  tabernacle.  His  definitions  and 
his  fancies  build  in  the  eaves  of  Solomon's  temple,  and  make 
their  '  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle'  in  the  carved  work  of 
the  holy  place.   To  follow  the  thread  of  his  religious  philosophy, 

"  Engelhardt,  Richard  von  St.  Victor,  p.  6. 
VOL,  I.  M 


1 62  Mysticisfn  in  the  Latin  Church.  [n.  v, 

you  have  to  pursue  his  agile  and  discursive  thoughts,  as  the 
sparrow-hawk  the  sparrow,  between  the  capitals,  among  the 
cedar  rafters,  over  the  gilded  roof,  from  court  to  court,  column 
to  column,  and  sometimes  after  all  the  chase  is  vain,  for  they 
have  escaped  into  the  bosom  of  a  cloud." 

On  a  basis  similar  to  that  of  Hugo,  Richard  erects  six  stages 
of  Contemplation.  The  two  first  grades  fall  within  the  province 
of  Imagination  ;  the  two  next  belong  to  Reason ;  the  two  high- 
est to  Intelligence.  The  objects  of  the  first  two  are  Sensibilia; 
of  the  second  pair,  hitelligibilia  (truths  concerning  what  is 
invisible,  but  accessible  to  reason) ;  of  the  third,  Intellectibilia 
(unseen  truth  above  reason).  These,  again,  have  their  subdi- 
visions, into  which  we  need  not  enter."  Within  the  depths  of 
thine  own  soul,  he  would  say,  thou  wilt  find  a  threefold  heaven 
— the  imaginational,  the  rational,  and  the  intellectual.  The 
third  heaven  is  open  only  to  the  eye  of  Intelligence — that  Eye 
whose  vision  is  clarified  by  divine  grace  and  by  a  holy  life. 
This  Eye  enjoys  the  immediate  discernment  of  unseen  truth,  as 
the  eye  of  the  body  beholds  sensible  objects.  His  use  of  the 
word  Intelligence  is  not  always  uniform.  It  would  seem  that 
this  divinely-illumined  eye  of  the  mind  is  to  search  first  into  the 
deeps  of  our  own  nature  {inferiora  invisibilia  nostra),  and  then 

'-  See  Note,  p.  171.  tion  {Meditatid)  ;  that  of  Intelligence, 

'3  The  six  degrees  of  contemplation  Contemplation  {Conte7nplatio). — Ibid. 

areas  follows  (Z'tfCcw/^w/'. i. 6, fol. 45):  cap.  3.     These  three  states  are   dis- 

1  In  imaginatione  secundum  so-  tinguished   with  much    care,  and  his 

lam  imaginationem.  definition  of  the  last  is  as  follows  : — 

2  In  imaginatione  secundum  ra-      Contemplatio   est    perspicax   et   liber 

tionem.  animi  contuitus   in   res   perspiciendas 

3  In  ratione  secundum  imagina-      undeqiiaque  diffusns. — Ibid.   cap.    4. 

tionem.  He  draws  the  distinction  between  in- 

4  In  ratione  secundum  rationem.       telligibilia  and  intellectibilia  in  cap.  7  ; 

5  Supra  rationem  sed  non  pra^ter     the  former  =  invisibilia  ratione  tanien 

rationem.  comprehensibilia  ;    the  latter  =  invisi- 

6  Sup»-a    rationem    videtur    esse      biiia    et    hinnanas   rationi   inCompre- 

praeter  rationem.  hensibilia.    The  four  lower  kinds  are 

The  office  of  Imagination  to  which  principally   occupied,    he    adds,   with 

the  first  two  belong  is  Thought  [Cogi-  created  objects,  the  two  last  with  what 

tatid) ;  the  otificeof  Reason,  Investiga^  is  uncreated  and  divine. — Fol.  45. 


c.  2.J  Ecstasy.  163 

upward  into  the  heights  of  the  divine  istiperiora  invisibilia 

divvia)}'' 

For  the  highest  degrees  of  Contemplation  penitence  avails 
more  than  science ;  sighs  obtain  what  is  impossible  to  reason. 
This  exalted  intuition  begins  on  earth,  and  is  consummated  in 
heaven.  Some,  by  divine  assistance,  reach  it  as  the  goal  of  long 
and  arduous  eftbrt.  Others  await  it,  and  are  at  times  rapt  away 
unawares  into  the  heaven  of  heavens.  Some  good  men  have 
been  ever  unable  to  attain  the  highest  stage ;  few  are  fully 
winged  with  all  the  six  pinions  of  Contemplation.  In  the 
ecstasy  he  describes,  there  is  supposed  to  be  a  divit'ing  a  ;under 
of  the  soul  and  the  spirit  as  by  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  of  God, 
The  body  sleeps,  and  the  soul  and  all  the  visible  world  is  shut 
away.  The  spirit  is  joined  to  the  Lord,  and  one  with  Him, — 
transcends  itself  and  all  the  limitations  of  human  thought.  In 
such  a  moment  it  is  conscious  of  no  division,  of  no  change  ;  all 
contraries  are  absorbed,  the  part  does  not  appear  less  than  the 
whole,  nor  is  the  whole  greater  than  a  part ;  the  universal  is 
seen  as  particular,  the  particular  as  universal ;  we  forget  both 
all  that  is  without  and  all  that  is  within  ourselves  ;  all  is  one 
and  one  is  all  \  and  when  the  rapture  is  past  the  spirit  returns 
from  its  trance  with  a  dim  and  dizzy  memory  of  unutterable 
glory.'' 

This  account  presents  in  some  parts  the  very  language  in 
which  Schelling  and  his  disciples  are  accustomed  to  describe 
the  privilege  of  Intellectual  Intuition. 

Atherton.  I  move  thanks  to  Gower. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Which  I  second.     It  has  been  strange  enough 
to  see  our  painter  turn  bookworm,  and  oscillating,  for  the  last 
fortnight  or  more,  between  the  forest  sunset  on  his  easel  and 
Atherton's  old  black-letter  copy  of  Richard  of  St.  Victor. 
>'  See  N'ote,  p.  17 1.  '■>  See  Note,  p,  172. 

M  2 


1 64  Mysticism  in  the  Lai  fin  CJuirch.  [n. 


GowER.  The  change  was  very  pleasant.  As  grateful,  I  should 
think,  as  the  actual  alternation  such  men  as  Hugo  and  Richard 
must  have  enjoyed  when  they  betook  themselves,  after  the  lassi- 
tude that  followed  an  ecstasy,  to  a  scholastic  argumentation  ;  or 
again  refreshed  themselves,  after  the  dryness  of  that,  by  an  ima- 
ginative flight  into  the  region  of  allegory,  or  by  some  contem- 
plative reverie  which  carried  them  farenough  beyond  the  confines 
of  logic.  The  monastic  fancy  found  this  interchange  symbolized 
in  the  upward  and  downward  motion  of  the  holy  bell.  Is  it  not 
in  Longfellow's  Golden  Legend  that  a  friar  says — 

And  the  upward  and  downward  motions  show 
That  we  touch  upon  matters  high  and  low  ; 
And  the  constant  change  and  transmutation 
Of  action  and  of  contemplation  ; 
Downward,  the  Scripture  brought  from  on  high, 
Upward,  exalted  again  to  the  sky  ; 
Downward,  the  literal  interpretation, 
Upward,  the  Vision  and  Mystery  ! 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Much  as  a  miracle-play  must  have  been  very 
refreshing  after  a  public  disputation,  or  as  the  most  overwrought 
and  most  distinguished  members  of  the  legal  profession  are  said 
to  devour  with  most  voracity  every  good  novel  they  can  catch. 

Atherton.  It  is  remarkable  to  see  the  mystical  interpreters 
of  that  day  committing  the  two  opposite  mistakes,  now  of 
regarding  what  is  symbolical  in  Scripture  as  literal,  and  again 
of  treating  what  is  literal  as  symbolical. 

GowER.  Somewhat  like  the  early  travellers,  who  mistook  the 
hybrid  figures  of  the  hieroglyphic  sculptures  they  saw  for  repre- 
sentations of  living  animals  existing  somewhere  up  the  country, 
and  then,  at  other  times,  fancied  they  found  some  profound 
significance  in  a  simple  tradition  or  an  ordinary  usage  dictated 
by  the  climate. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  there  lies  a  great  truth  in  the  counsel 
they  give  us  to  rise  above  all  sensuous  images  in  our  contem- 
plation of  the  Divine  Nature. 


c.  2.]  The  Truth  at  the  root  of  Mysticism.  165 

Atherton.  No  doubt.  God  is  a  spirit.  The  Infinite  Mind 
must  not  be  represented  to  our  thought  through  the  medium  of 
any  material  image,  as  though  in  that  we  had  all  the  truth. 
We  must  not  confound  the  medium  with  the  object.  But  the 
object  is  in  fact  inaccessible  without  a  medium.  The  Divine 
Nature  is  resolved  into  a  mere  blank  diffusion  when  regarded  as 
apart  from  a  Divine  Character.  We  are  practically  without  a 
God  in  the  presence  of  such  an  abstraction.  To  enable  us  to 
realize  personality  and  character  there  must  be  a  medium,  a 
representation,  some  analogy  drawn  from  relationships  or  objects 
with  which  we  are  acquainted. 

The  fault  I  find  with  these  mystics  is,  that  they  encourage  the 
imagination  to  run  riot  in  provinces  where  it  is  not  needed,  and 
prohibit  its  exercise  where  it  would  render  the  greatest  service. 
Orthodox  as  they  were  in  their  day,  they  yet  attempt  to  gaze  on 
the  Divine  Nature  in  its  absoluteness  and  abstraction,  apart  from 
the  manifestation  of  it  to  our  intellect,  our  heart,  and  our 
imagination,  which  is  made  in  the  incarnate  Christ  Jesus.  God 
has  supplied  them  with  this  help  to  their  apprehension  of  Him, 
but  they  hope  by  His  help  to  dispense  with  it.  They  neglect 
the  possible  and  practical  in  striving  after  a  dazzling  impossi- 
bility which  allures  their  spiritual  ambition.  This  is  a  natural 
consequence  of  that  extravagance  of  spirituality  which  tells  man 
that  his  highest  aim  is  to  escape  from  his  human  nature — not  to 
work  under  the  conditions  of  his  finite  being,  but  to  violate  and 
escape  them  as  far  as  possible  in  quest  of  a  superhuman  eleva- 
tion. We  poor  mortals,  as  Schiller  says,  must  have  coloui: 
The  attempt  to  evade  this  law  always  ends  in  substituting  the 
mind's  creation  for  the  mind's  Creator. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  cannot  say  that  I  clearly  understand  what 
this  much-extolled  introspection  of  theirs  is  supposed  to  reveal 
to  them. 

Atherton.  Neither,  very  probably,  did  they.     But  though 


1 66  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  C/inrck.  {v..  v. 

an  exact  localization  may  be  impossible,  I  think  we  can  say 
■ivhereabout  they  are  in  their  opinion  on  this  point.  Their  posi- 
tion is  intermediate.  They  stand  between  the  truth  which 
assigns  to  an  internal  witness  and  an  external  revelation  their 
just  relative  position,  and  that  extreme  of  error  which  would 
deny  the  need  or  possibility  of  any  external  revelation  what- 
ever. They  do  not  ignore  either  factor ;  they  unduly  increase 
one  of  them. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Good.  Will  you  have  the  kindness  first  to 
give  me  the  truth  as  you  hold  it  ?  Then  we  shall  have  the 
ienniniis  a  quo. 

Atherton.  There  is  what  has  been  variously  termed  an  ex- 
perimental or  moral  evidence  for  Christianity,  which  comes  from 
within.  If  any  one  reverently  searches  the  Scriptures,  desiring 
sincerely  to  know  and  do  the  will  of  God  as  there  revealed,  he 
has  the  promise  of  Divine  assistance.  He  will  find,  in  the  evil 
of  his  own  heart,  a  reality  answering  to  the  statements  of  tlie 
Bible.  He  will  find,  in  repentance  and  in  faith,  in  growing  love 
and  hope,  that  very  change  taking  place  within  which  is 
described  in  the  book  without.  His  nature  is  being  gradually 
brought  into  harmony  with  the  truth  there  set  forth.  He  has 
experienced  the  truth  of  the  Saviour's  words,  '  If  any  man  will 
do  his  will,  he  shall  know  of  the  doctrine  whether  it  be  of  God.' 

But  in  this  experimental  evidence  there  is  nothing  mystical. 
It  does  not  at  all  supersede  or  infringe  on  the  evidence  of  testi- 
mony,— the  convincing  argument  from  without,  which  may  at 
first  have  made  the  man  feel  it  his  duty  to  study  a  book  sup- 
ported by  a  claim  so  strong.  Neither  does  he  cease  to  use  his 
reason,  when  looking  within,  any  more  than  when  listening  to 
witness  from  without.  In  self-observation,  if  in  any  exercise, 
reason  must  be  vigilant.  Neither  is  such  inward  evidence  a 
miraculous  experience  peculiar  to  himself.  It  is  common  to 
multitudes.     It  is  open  to  all  who  will  take  the  same  course  he 


2.]  The  inner  LigJit  and  tJie  outer.  i6; 


has  done.  He  does  not  reach  it  by  a  faculty  which  transcends 
his  human  nature,  and  leaves  in  the  distance  every  power  which 
has  been  hitherto  in  such  wholesome  exercise.  There  is  here  no 
special  revelation,  distinct  from  and  supplementary  to  the 
general.  Such  a  privilege  would  render  an  appeal  from  himself 
to  others  impossible.  It  would  entrench  each  Christian  in  his 
individuality  apart  from  the  rest.  It  would  give  to  conscien- 
tious differences  on  minor  points  the  authority  of  so  many  con- 
flicting inspirations.  It  would  issue  in  the  ultimate  disintegra- 
tion of  the  Christian  body. 

The  error  of  the  mystics  we  are  now  considering  consists  in 
an  exaggeration  of  the  truth  concerning  experimental  evidence. 
They  seem  to  say  that  the  Spirit  will  manifest  to  the  devout 
mind  verities  within  itself  which  are,  as  it  were,  the  essence  and 
oricrinal  of  the  truths  which  the  Church  without  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  teach;  so  that,  supposing  a  man  to  have  rightly  used 
the  external  revelation,  and  at  a  certain  point  to  suspend  all 
reference  to  it,  and  to  be  completely  secluded  from  all  external 
influences,  there  would  then  be  manifest  to  him,  in  God,  the 
Ideas  themselves  which  have  been  developed  in  time  into  a 
Bible  and  a  historical  Christianity.    The  soul,  on  this  Platonist 
principle,  enjoys  a  commerce  once  more  with  the  world  of 
Intelligence  in  the  depth  of  the   Divine  Nature.     She  recovers 
her  wings.    The  obhterations  on  the  tablet  of  Reminiscence  are 
supplied.     A  theosophist  like  Paracelsus  would  declare  that  the 
whole  universe  is  laid  up  potentially  in  the  mind  of  man— the 
microcosm  answering  to  the  macrocosm.     In  a  similar  way 
these  mystics  would  have  us  believe  that  there  is  in  man  a 
microdogma    within,    answering    to    the    viacrodogma    of   the 
Church  without.      Accordingly  they  deem  it  not  difficult  to 
discover  a  Christology  in  psychology,  a  Trinity  in  metaphysics. 
Hence,  too,  this  erroneous  assertion  that  if  the  heathen  had  only 
known  themselves,  they  would  have  known  God. 


1 68  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  [n.v. 

GowER.  If  some  of  our  modern  advocates  of  the  theory  of 
Insight  be  right,  they  ought  to  have  succeeded  in  both. 

Atherton.  That  '  Know  thyself  was  a  precept  whicli  had 
its  worth  in  the  sense  Socrates  gave  it.  In  the  sense  of  Plotinus 
it  was  a  delusion.  AppHed  to  morals, — regarded  as  equivalent 
to  a  call  to  obey  conscience,  it  might  render  service.  And  yet 
varying  and  imperfect  consciences— conflicting  inner  laws,  could 
give  men  as  an  inference  no  immutable  and  perfect  Lawgiver. 
Understood  as  equivalent  to  saying  that  the  mind  is  in  itself  an 
all-sufficient  and  infallible  repertory  of  spiritual  truth,  history  in 
every  page  refutes  it.  The  monstrosities  of  idolatry,  the  dis- 
putes of  philosophical  schools,  the  aspirations  among  the  best  of 

the  sages  of  antiquity  after  a  divine  teaching  of  some  sort all 

these  facts  are  fatal  to  the  notion.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  able 
in  some  degree  to  appreciate  the  excellence  of  revealed  truth, 
and  quite  another  to  be  competent  to  discover  it  for  ourselves. 
Lactantius  was  right  when  he  exclaimed,  as  he  surveyed  the  sad 
and  wasteful  follies  of  heathendom,  O  quam  difficilis  est  igno- 
rant ibus  Veritas,  et  guanifacilis  sclent  ibus  I 

WiLLouGHBY.  I  must  say  I  can  scarcely  conceive  it  possible 
to  exclude  from  the  mind  every  trace  and  result  of  what  is 
external,  and  to  gaze  down  into  the  depths  of  our  simple  self- 
consciousness  as  the  mystic  bids  us  do.  It  is  like  forming  a 
moral  estimate  of  a  man  exclusive  of  the  slightest  reference  to 
his  character. 

GowER.  I  think  that  as  the  result  of  such  a  process,  we 
should  find  only  what  we  bring.  Assuredly  this  must  con- 
tinually have  been  the  case  with  our  friends  Hugo  and  Richard. 
The  method  reminds  me  of  a  trick  I  have  heard  of  as  sometimes 
played  on  the  proprietor  of  a  supposed  coal-mine  in  which  no 
coal  could  be  found,  with  a  view  to  induce  him  to  continue  his 
profitless  speculation.  Geologists,  learned  theoretical  men,  pro- 
test that  there  can  be  no  coal  on  that  estate— there  is  none  in 
that  part  of  England.     But  the /r^,;//<r^/ man  puts  some  lumps 


c.  2.]  Intellectual  Intuition.  1 69 

slyly  in  his  pocket,  goes  down  with  them,  and  brings  them  up 
in  triumph,  as  fresh  from  the  depths  of  the  earth. 

Atherton.  Some  German  writ  :rs,  even  of  the  better  sort 
have  committed  a  similar  mistake  in  their  treatment  of  the  life 
of  Christ.  First  they  set  to  work  to  construct  the  idea  of 
Christ  (out  of  the  depths  of  their  consciousness,  I  suppose),  then 
they  study  and  compare  the  gospels  to  find  that  idea  realized. 
They  think  they  have  established  the  claim  of  Evangelists  when 
they  can  show  that  they  have  found  their  idea  developed  in  the 
biography  they  give  us.  As  though  the  German  mind  could 
have  had  any  idea  of  Christ  at  all  within  its  profundities,  but 
for  the  fishermen  in  the  first  instance. 

GowER.  This  said  Eye  of  Intelligence  appears  to  me  a  pure 
fiction.  What  am  I  to  make  of  a  faculty  which  is  above,  and 
independent  of,  memory,  reason,  feeling,  imagination, — without 
cognizance  of  those  external  influences  (which  at  least  contribute 
to  make  us  what  we  are),  and  without  organs,  instruments,  or 
means  of  any  kind  for  doing  any  sort  of  work  whatever?  Surely 
this  complete  and  perpetual  separation  between  intuition  and 
everything  else  within  and  without  us,  is  a  most  unphilosophical 
dichotomy  of  the  mind  of  man. 

Atherton.  Equally  so,  whether  it  be  regarded  as  natural  to 
man  or  as  a  supernatural  gift.  Our  intuitions,  however  rapid, 
must  rest  on  the  belief  of  some  fact,  the  recognition  of  some 
relationship  or  sense  of  fitness,  which  rests  again  on  a  judgment, 
right  or  wrong. 

WiLLouGHBY.  And  in  such  judgment  the  world  without 
must  have  large  share. 

Gower.  For  the  existence  of  such  a  separate  faculty  as  a 
spiritual  gift  we  have  only  the  word  of  Hugo  and  his  brethren. 
The  faith  of  Scripture,  instead  of  being  cut  otf  from  the  other 
powers  of  the  mind,  is  sustained  by  them,  and  strengthens  as 
we  exercise  them. 

Atherton.  President  Edwards,  in  his  Treatise  on  the  Affec- 


1 70  MysticisDi  in  the  Latin  Church.  [d.  v. 


tions,  appears  to  me  to  approach  the  error  of  those  mystics,  in 
endeavouring  to  make  it  appear  that  regeneration  imparts  a  new 
power,  rather  than  a  new  disposition,  to  the  mind.  Such  a 
doctrine  cuts  off  the  common  ground  between  the  individual 
Christian  and  other  men.  According  to  the  Victorines  it  would 
seem  to  be  the  glory  of  Christianity  that  it  enables  man,  at 
intervals  at  least,  to  denude  himself  of  reason.  To  me  its 
triumph  appears  to  consist  in  this,  that  it  makes  him,  for  the 
first  time,  Iruly  reasonable,  who  before  acted  unreasonably 
because  of  a  perverted  will. 


Note  to  page  158. 

The  treatise  by  Hugo,  entitled  De  Vanitatc  Mundi,  is  a  dialogue  between 
teacher  and  scholar,  in  which,  after  directing  his  pupil  to  survey  the  endless 
variety  and  vicissitude  of  life,  after  showing  him  the  horrors  of  a  shipwreck,  the 
house  of  Dives,  a  marriage  feast,  the  toils  and  disputes  of  the  learned,  the 
instructor  bids  him  shelter  himself  from  this  sea  of  care  in  that  ark  of  God,  the 
religious  life.  He  proceeds  to  describe  that  innei  Eye,  that  oculus  cordis,  whose 
vision  is  so  precious.  'Thou  hast  another  eye,'  he  says  (lib.  i.  p.  172),  'an  eye 
withui,  far  more  piercing  than  the  other  thou  speakest  of, — one  that  beholds  at 
once  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  ;  which  diffuses  through  all  things  the 
keen  brightness  of  its  vision  ;  which  penetrates  what  is  hidden,  investigates  what 
is  impalpable  ;  which  needs  no  foreign  light  wherewith  to  see,  but  gazes  by  a 
light  of  its  own,  peculiar  to  itself  (luce  aliena  ad  videndum  non  indigens,  sed  sua 
ac  propria  luce  prospiciens). 

Self-collection  is  opposed  (p.  175)  to  distraction,  or  attachment  to  the  mani- 
fold,— is  declared  to  be  restanratio,  and  at  the  same  time  elcvatio.  The  scholar 
inquires,  '  If  the  heart  of  man  be  an  ark  or  ship,  how  can  man  be  said  to  enter 
into  his  own  heart,  or  to  navigate  the  universe  with  his  heart  ?  Lastly,  if  God, 
whom  you  call  the  harbour,  be  above,  what  can  you  mean  by  such  an  unheard-of 
thing  as  a  voyage  which  carries  the  ship  upwards,  and  bears  away  the  mariner 
out  of  himself?'  The  teacher  replies,  'When  we  purpose  elevating  the  eye  of 
the  mind  to  things  invisible,  we  must  avail  ourselves  of  certain  analogies  drawn 
from  the  objects  of  sense.  Accordingly,  when,  speaking  of  things  spiritual  and 
unseen,  we  say  that  anything  is  highest,  we  do  not  mean  that  it  is  at  the  top  of 
the  sky,  but  that  it  is  the  inmost  of  all  things.  To  ascend  to  God,  therefore,  is 
to  enter  into  ourselves,  and  not  only  so,  but  in  our  inmost  self  to  transcend  our- 
selves. (Ascendere  ergo  ad  Deum  hoc  est  intrare  ad  sem^jt  ipsum,  et  non  solum 
ad  se  intrare,  sed  ineffabili  quodam  modo  in  intimis  etiam  se  ipsum  transire, 
p.  176.) 

Hugo,  like  Richard,  associates  this  illumination  inseparably  with  the  practices 
of  devotion.  The  tree  of  Wisdom  within  is  watered  by  Grace.  It  stands  by 
Faith,  and  is  rooted  in  God.  As  it  flourishes,  we  die  to  the  world,  we  empty 
ourselves,  we  sigh  over  even  tiie  necessary  use  of  anything  earthly.  Devotion 
makes  it  bud,  constancy  of  penitence  causes  it  to  grow.  Such  penitence  (com- 
punctio)  he  compares  to  digging  in  search  of  a  treasure,  or  to  find  a  spring.  Sin 


Mysticism  in  the  Latin  Church.  1 7  r 


has  concealed  this  hoard — buried  this  water-source  down  beneath  the  many- 
evils  of  the  heart.  The  watching  and  the  prayer  of  the  contrite  spirit  clears 
away  what  is  earthly,  and  restores  the  divine  gift.  The  spirit,  inflamed  with 
heavenly  desire,  soars  upward — becomes,  as  it  ascends,  less  gross,  as  a  column 
of  smoke  is  least  dense  towards  its  summit,  till  we  are  all  spirit ;  are  lost  to 
mortal  ken,  as  the  cloud  melts  into  the  air,  and  find  a  perfect  peace  within,  in 
secret  gazing  on  the  face  of  the  Lord.    De  Area  morali,  lib.  iii.  cap.  7. 

Note  to  page  162. 

See  the  introductory  chapters  of  the  Benjamin  Minor,  or  De  -prep,  anini. 
ad  coiitemp.  fol.  34,  &c. — Richard  rates  this  kind  of  interpretation  very  highly, 
and  looks  for  success  therein  to  Divine  Illumination.  [De  criiditione  inicriori<, 
hominis,  cap.  vi.  fol.  25.)  A  passage  or  two  from  an  appendix  to  his  Treatise 
on  Contemplation,  may  serve,  once  for  all,  as  a  specimen  of  his  mystical  inter- 
pretation. It  is  entitled  Noiiniillm  alk^orice  tabernaculi.  foederis.  '  By  the 
tabernacle  of  the  covenant  understand  the  state  of  perfection.  Where  perfec- 
tion of  the  soul  is,  there  is  the  indwelling  of  God.  The  nearer  we  approach  per- 
fection, the  more  closely  are  we  united  with  God.  The  tabernacle  must  have  a 
court  about  it.  Understand  by  this  the  discipline  of  the  body  ;  by  the  taber- 
nacle itself,  the  discipline  of  the  mind.  The  one  is  useless  without  the  other. 
The  court  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  so  the  discipline  of  the  body  is  accessible  to 
all.  What  was  within  the  tabernacle  could  not  be  seen  by  tliose  without. 
None  knows  what  is  in  the  inner  man  save  the  spirit  of  man  which  is  in  him. 
The  inner  man  is  divided  into  rational  and  intellectual ;  the  former  represented 
by  the  outer,  the  latter  by  the  inner  part  of  the  tabernacle.  We  call  th.at 
rational  perception  by  which  we  discern  what  is  within  ourselves.  We  here 
apply  the  term  intellectual  perception  to  that  faculty  by  which  we  are  elevated 
to  the  survey  of  what  is  divine.  Man  goes  out  of  the  tabernacle  into  the  court 
in  the  exercise  of  works.  He  enters  the  first  tabernacle  when  he  returns  to 
himself.  He  enters  the  second  when  he  transcends  himself.  Self-transcendence 
is  elevation  into  Deity.  (Transcendendo  sane  seipsum  elevatur  in  Deum.)  In 
the  former,  man  is  occupied  with  the  consideration  of  himself ;  in  tlie  latter, 
with  the  contemplation  of  God. 

'  The  ark  of  the  covenant  represents  the  grace  of  contemplation.  The  kinds 
of  contemplation  are  si.x,  each  distinct  from  the  rest.  Two  of  tliem  are 
exercised  with  regard  to  visible  creatures,  two  are  occupied  with  invisible,  the 
two  last  with  what  is  divine.  The  first  four  are  represented  in  the  aik,  the  two 
ethers  are  set  forth  in  the  figures  of  the  cherubim.  Mark  the  difference  between 
the  wood  and  the  gold.  There  is  the  same  difference  between  the  objects  of 
imagination  and  tlie  objects  of  reason.  By  imagination  we  behold  the  forms  of 
things  visible,  by  ratiocination  we  investigate  their  causes.  The  three  kinds  of 
consideration  which  hav»  reference  to  things,  works,  and  morals,  belong  to  the 
length,  breadth,  and  height  of  the  ark  respectively.  In  the  consideration  of 
/tjrm  and  matter,  our  knowledge  avails  a  full  cubit.  (It  is  equivalent  to  a 
cubit  when  complete.)  But  our  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  things  is  only 
partial.  For  this  part,  therefore,  we  reckon  only  half  a  cubit.  Accordingly, 
the  length  of  the  ark  is  two  cubits  and  a  half."  ....  And  thus  he  proceeds 
concerning  the  crown,  the  rings,  the  staves,  the  mercy-seat,  the  cherubim,  &c. 
— Fol.  63,  &c. 

Note  to  page  163, 

The  three  heavens  within  the  mind  are  described  at  length,  (De  Coniemp. 
lib.  iii.  cap.  8.)  In  the  first  are  contained  the  images  of  all  things  visible  ;  in 
the  second  lie  the  definitions  and  principles  of  things  seen,  the  investigations 
made  concerning  things  unseen  ;  in  the  third  are  contemplations  of  things 


1/2  Mysticism  in  the  Latiti  CJmrch.  [b.  v. 

divine,  beheld  as  they  truly  are — a  sun  that  knows  no  going  down,—  and  there, 
and  there  alone,  the  kingdom  of  God  within  ns  in  its  glory. — Cap.  x.  fol  52. 

The  eye  of  Intelligence  is  thus  defined  (cap.  ix.)  : — Intelligentise  siquidem 
oculus  est  sensus  ille  quo  invisibilia  videmus  :  non  sicut  oculo  rationis  quo 
occulta  et  absentia  per  investigationem  quaerimus  et  inveiiimus  ;  sicut  saspe 
caus  !S  per  effectus,  vel  effectus  per  causas,  et  alia  atque  alia  quocunque  ratio- 
cinandi  modocomprehendimus.  Sed sicut  corporaliacorporeosensuvideresolemus 
visibiliterpotentialiter  et  corporaliter  ;  sic  utique  intellectualis  ille  sensus  invisibilia 
capit  invisibiliter  quidem,  sed  potentialiter,  sed  essentialiter.  (Fol.  52.)  He 
then  goes  on  to  speak  of  the  veil  drawn  over  this  organ  by  sin,  and  admits  that 
even  when  illuminated  from  above,  its  gaze  upon  our  inner  self  is  not  so  piercing 
as  to  be  able  to  discern  the  essence  of  the  soul.  The  inner  verities  are  said  to  be 
within,  the  upper,  beyond  the  veil.  '  It  may  be  questioned,  however,  whetb.er 
we  are  to  see  with  this  same  eye  of  Intelligence  the  things  beyond  the  veil,  or 
whether  we  use  one  sense  to  behold  the  invisible  things  wiiich  are  divine,  and 
another  to  behold  the  invisible  things  of  our  own  nature.  But  those  who  main- 
tain that  there  is  one  sense  for  the  intuition  of  things  above  and  another  for 
those  below,  must  prove  it  as  well  as  they  can.  I  believe  that  in  this  way  they 
introduce  much  confusion  into  the  use  of  this  word  Intelligence, — now  extending 
its  signification  to  a  speculation  which  is  occupied  with  what  is  above,  and  now 
confining  it  to  what  is  below,  and  sometimes  including  both  senses.  This  two- 
fold intuition  of  things  above  and  things  below,  whether  we  call  it,  as  it  were,  a 
double  sense  in  one,  or  divide  it,  is  yet  the  instrument  of  the  same  sense,  or  a 
twofold  effect  of  the  same  instrument,  and  whichever  we  choose,  there  can  be  no 
objection  to  our  saying  that  they  both  belong  to  the  intellectual  heaven.'  There 
is  certainly  much  of  the  confusion  of  which  he  complains  in  his  own  use  of  the 
word, — a  confusion  which  is  perhaps  explained  by  supposing  that  he  sometimes 
allows  Intelligence  to  extend  its  office  below  its  proper  province,  though  no  other 
faculty  can  rise  above  the  limits  assigned  to  it.  Intelligence  may  sometimes 
survey  from  her  altitude  the  more  slow  and  laborious  processes  of  reason,  though 
she  never  descends  to  such  toil. 

He  dwells  constantly  on  the  importance  of  self-knowledge,  self-simplification, 
self-concentration,  as  essential  to  the  ascent  of  the  soul. — De  Coniemp.  \ih.  in. 
c.  3,  c.  6  ;  and  on  the  difficulty  of  this  attainment,  lib.  iv.  c.  6. 

Note  to  page  163. 

De  Contevip.  lib.  iv.  cap.  6.  Ibid.  cap.  23,  and  comp.  lib.  v.  cap.  i. 
Also  iv.  cap.  10.  He  calls  it  expressly  a  vision  face  to  face  : — Egressus  autem 
quasi  facie  ad  faciem  intuetur,  qui  per  mentis  excessus  extra  semetipsum  ductus 
summas  sapientiae  lumen  sine  aliquo  involucro  figurarum.  ve  adumbratione  ; 
denique  non  per  speculum  et  in  enigmate,  sed  in  simplici  (ut  sic  dicam)  veritate 
contemplatur.—  Fol.  56.  See  also  lib.  v.  coepp  4,  5,  where  he  enters  at  large  on 
the  degrees  and  starting-points  of  self-transcendence.     Comp.  iv.  c.  2,  fol.  60. 

De  Contemp.  i.  cap.  10,  describes  the  six  wings,  and  declares  that  in  a  future 
state  we  shall  possess  them  all.  Speaking  of  ecstasy,  he  says  :— 'Cum  enim  per 
mentis  excessum  supra  sive  intra  nosmetipsos  in  divinorum  contemplatior.em 
rapimur  exteriorum  omnium  statini  immo  non  solum  eorum  quae  extra  no-. 
verum  etiam  eorum  qurs  in  nobis  sunt  omnium  obliviscimur.'  When  exjjlainiiig 
the  separation  of  soul  and  spirit,  he  exclaiins, — '  C.)  aUa  quies,  O  sublimis  requiem, 
ubi  omnis  quod  humanitus  moved  solet  motum  oninem  amittit  ;  ubi  omnis  qui 
tunc  est  motus  divinitus  fit  et  in  Deum  trans'.t.  Hie  ille  spiritus  efflatus  in 
nianus  patris  commendatur,  non  (ut  ille  somniator  Jacob)  scala  indiget  ut  ad 
tertium  (ne  dicam  ad  primum)  caelum  evolet.  Quid  quceso  scala  indigeat  quern 
pater  inter  manus  bajulat  ut  ad  tertii  coeli  secreta  rapiat  intantum  ut  glorie^ur, 
et  dicat,  Dextera  tua  suscepit  me Spiritus  ab  iniimis  dividitur  ut  ad 


c.  2]  Mysticism  in  the  Latin  ChnrcJi.  173 

summa  sublimetur.  Spiritus  ab  anima  scinditur  ut  Domino  uniatur.  Qui  eniin 
adhneret  Domino  unus  spiritus  est. — De  extermin.  maii  et  frotnotiojie  boni, 
cap.  .xviii.  Again  {Dc  Contemp.  lib.  iv.  c.  4),  In  hac  gemina  speculatione  niliil 
imnginariuni,  nihil  fantasticum  debet  occurrere.  Longe  enim  omnem  corporea; 
siniilitudinis  proprietatem  excedit  quicquid  spectacuJi  tihi  haec  gemina  novissimi 

operis  specula  pioponit Ubi  pars  non  est  minor  suo  toto,   nee  totum 

universalius  suo  individuo  ;  imnio  ubi  pars  a  toto  non  minuitur,  totum  e.x 
partibus  non  constituitur  ;  quia  simplex  est  quod  universaliter  proponitur  et 
universale  quod  quasi  particulare  profertur  ;  ubi  totum  singula,  ubi  omnia  unum 
et  unuin  omnia.  In  his  utique  absque  dubio  succumbit  humana  ratio,  et  quid 
faciat  ibi  imaginatio  ?  Absque  dubio  in  ejusmodi  spectaculo  ofiicere  potest; 
adjuvare  omnino  non  potest.  Elsewhere  he  describes  the  state  as  one  of  rap- 
turous spiiitual  intoxication.  Magnitudine  jocunditatis  et  exultationis  mens 
hominis  a  seipsa  alienatur,  quum  intima  ilia  internte  saavitatis  abundantia 
potata,  immo  plena  inebriata,  quid  sir,  quid  fuerit,  penitus  obliviscitur  ;  tt  in 
abalienationis  excessum  tripudii  sui  nimietate  traducitur;  et  in  supenuundanum 
quendam  affectum  sub  quodam  mirae  felicitatis  statu  raptim  transformatur. — 
Ibid.  lib.  V.  c.  s,  fol.  60. 


BOOK    THE    SIXTH 


GERMAN  MYSTICISM  IN  THE  FOURTEENTH 
CENTURY 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  pray  thee,  peace  ;  I  will  be  flesh  and  blood  , 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher, 
That  could  endure  the  toothache  patiently  ; 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods. 
And  made  a  pish  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

Much  Add  adout  Nothing. 

It  is  more  healthful  and  nutritive  to  dig  the  earth,  and  to  eat  of  her  fruits, 
than  to  stare  upon  the  greatest  glories  of  the  heaven?,  and  live  upon  the  beams 
of  the  sun  :  so  unsatisfying  a  thing  is  rapture  and  transportation  to  the  soul ;  it 
often  distracts  the  faculties,  but  seldom  does  advantage  piety,  and  is  full  of 
danger  in  the  greatest  of  its  lustre.— Jkremy  Taylor. 

'T^IIE  approach  of  summer  separated  the  members  of  the 
Ashfield  circle  for  a  time.  Atherton  purposed  spending 
a  few  weeks  in  Germany,  and  Willoughby  consented  to  accom- 
pany him.  They  were  to  visit  once  more  Bonn,  Heidelberg, 
and  Frankfort,  then  to  make  Strasburg  their  head  quarters,  and 
thence  to  ramble  about  Alsace. 

As  soon  as  Atherton  had  left  them,  Mrs.  Atherton  and  Kate 
Merivale  set  out  for  the  West  of  England,  to  visit  their  friends 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lowestoffe.  Gower  projected  a  sketching  excur- 
sion along  the  banks  of  the  Wye.  He  knew  the  Lowestoffes, 
and  gladly  bound  himself  by  the  promise  they  exacted,  that  he 
would  make  Summerford  House  his  home  for  a  day  or  two  now 
and  then,  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings.  The  beauty  of  the 
grounds  and  neighbourhood  would  have  rendered  such  visits 
eminently  delightful,  even  had  the  hospitable  host  and  hostess 
been  less  accomplished  admirers  of  art,  or  had  Gower  found  no 
irresistible  attraction  in  one  of  their  guests. 

The  days  at  Summerford  glided  by  in  the  enjoyment  of 
VOL.  I.  N 


17^         German  Mysticism  in  the  i  4'^'  Century.        [u.  vi. 

those  innumerable  minor  satisfactions  which,  far  more  than 
highly  pleasurable  excitements,  make  up  the  happiness  of  exist- 
ence. If  you  doubt  it,  consult  Abraham  Tucker  on  the  matter. 
To  many  persons,  life  at  the  Lowestoffes'  would  have  been 
intolerably  dull.  There  were  few  visitors.  The  family  seldom 
emerged  from  their  retirement  to  visit  the  neighbouring  city. 
Their  amusements  and  their  occupations,  though  varied,  were 
confined  within  limits  which  some  would  find  lamentably  narrow. 
Lovvestofife  himself  was  an  early  man  and  a  punctual.  It  cost 
him  something  to  smile  a  courteous  forgiveness  when  even  a 
favourite  guest  transgressed  any  of  the  family  regulations  011 
which  his  comfort  so  much  depended.  His  horses  and  dogs, 
his  grounds  and  his  flowers,  everything  about  him  and  all 
dependent  upon  him,  were  methodically  cared  for,  inspected, 
or  commanded  by  himself  in  person.  In  one  respect  only  was 
there  irregularity, — no  servant,  labourer,  or  workman  could  be 
sure  of  any  moment  in  which  the  master  might  not  suddenly 
appear  to  see  that  all  went  rightly.  Though  scrupulously  just, 
and  of  a  generous  nature,  Lowestofife  was  only  too  subject  to  a 
nervous  dread  of  being  defrauded  by  those  he  employed,  and 
used  often  to  declare  that  men  were  ruined,  not  so  much  by 
what  they  spent  themselves,  as  by  what  they  allowed  others  to 
spend  for  them.  In  his  early  days  he  had  contented  himself 
with  the  mere  necessaries  of  his  position  in  life,  to  discharge  the 
debts  which  he  inherited.  He  would  actually  have  gone  into 
business  (to  the  horror  of  his  aristocratic  friends,  but  with  the 
applause  of  every  impartial  conscience),  had  there  been  no 
other  way  whereby  to  emancipate  his  property  and  honour.  All 
declared  he  would  have  made  a  fortune  if  he  had.  A  few  years 
of  self-denial,  and  a  few  more  of  frugality  and  industrious  vigi- 
lance, realized  the  full  accomplishment  of  his  most  cherished 
desire.  His  care  and  activity  enabled  him  to  deal  very  liberally 
whatever  his  confidence  was  at  last  bestowed,  and  to  expend 


c.  I.]  Suminerford.  179 

in  discriminating  charity  a  large  annual  sum.  He  was  a  con- 
noisseur and  a  liberal  patron  of  art,  but  no  solicitation  could 
induce  him  to  purchase  an  old  master.  He  knew  well  how 
skilfully  imitations  of  antiquity  are  prepared,  and  had  he  bought 
a  reputed  Titian  or  Correggio,  he  would  have  fidgeted  himself 
into  a  fever  in  a  fortnight,  by  ruminating  on  the  probabilities 
of  deception.  He  spent  his  money  far  more  wisely  on  choice 
pieces  by  living  artisls.  When  the  morning  was  over,  the 
afternoon  and  evening  found  him  a  cheerful  and  fascinating 
companion.  His  cares  were  thrown  off,  and  he  was  restless 
and  anxious  no  longer  about  little  things.  Literature  and  art, 
even  mere  frolic,  play  with  a  child,  or  a  game  of  any  kind,  were 
welcome.  Gower  whispered  an  antithesis  one  day,  to  the  eftect 
that  Lowestofte  gave  one  half  the  day  to  childish  wisdom  and 
the  other  to  wise  childishness. 

We  have  mentioned  what  was  not  to  be  found  at  Summer- 
ford.  What  the  two  sisters  did  find  there  was  amply  sufificient 
for  enjoyment.  There  was  a  long  avenue  winding  up  to  the 
house,  so  beset  with  ancient  trees,  that  it  seemed  a  passage 
through  the  heart  of  a  wood.  The  lawn  on  which  it  opened 
was  dotted  with  islands  and  rings  of  flower-bed, — perfect  magic 
circles  of  horticulture,  one  all  blue,  another  red,  another  yellow. 
There  was  the  house  itself,  with  its  old-fashioned  terraces,  urns, 
and  balustrades,  and  behind  it — oh,  joy — a  rookery!  A  con^ 
servatory  shot  out  its  transparent  glittering  wing  on  one  side  of 
the  edifice.  At  the  foot  of  a  slope  of  grass  descending  from  the 
flower-palace  lay  a  pool,  shut  in  by  a  mound  and  by  fragments 
of  rock  overgrown  with  flowers,  and  arched  above  by  trees.  On 
the  surface  spread  the  level  leaves  of  the  water-lilies,  with  the 
sparkling  bubbles  here  and  there  upon  their  edges,  and  every- 
where the  shadowed  water  was  alive  with  fish,  that  might  be 
seen  darting,  like  little  ruddy  flames,  in  and  out  among  the 
arrowy  sheaves  of  reeds.     Then  farther  away  there  were  old 

N  2 


l8o         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'    Century.        [a.  vi. 

irregular  walks,  richly  furred  with  moss,  wandering  under  trees 
through  which  the  sunbeams  shot,  now  making  some  glossy 
evergreen  far  in  among  the  stems  and  underwood  shine  with  a 
startling  brightness  (so  that  the  passer-by  turned  to  see  if  there 
were  not  running  water  there,  and  fancied  Undine  had  been  at 
her  tricks  again), — now  rendering  translucent  some  plume  of 
fern,  now  kindling  some  rugged  edge  of  fir,  and  again  glistening 
on  some  old  tree-trunk,  mailed  with  its  circular  plates  of  white 
lichen.  These  wood  pathways — often  broken  into  natural  steps 
by  the  roots  of  the  trees  which  ran  across  their  course — led  up 
a  steep  hill.  From  the  summit  were  seen,  in  front,  opposite 
heights,  thickly  covered  with  foliage,  through  which  it  was  only 
here  and  there  that  a  jutting  point  of  rock  could  show  itself  to 
be  reddened  by  the  setting  sun.  Beneath,  at  a  great  depth,  a 
shallow  brook  idled  on  its  pebbles,  and  you  looked  down  on  the 
heads  of  those  who  crossed  its  rustic  bridge.  On  the  one  hand, 
there  stretched  away  to  the  horizon  a  gentle  sweep  of  hills, 
crossed  and  re-crossed  with  hedgerows  and  speckled  with  trees 
and  sheep,  and,  on  the  other,  lay  the  sea,  in  the  haze  of  a  sultry 
day,  seen  like  a  grey  tablet  of  marble  veined  with  cloud-shadows. 
All  this  without  doors,  and  books,  pictures,  prints,  drawing, 
chess,  chat,  so  choice  and  plentiful  within,  made  Summerford 
'  a  dainty  place' — 

Attempred  goodly  well  for  health  and  for  delight. 

Meanwhile  Atherton  in  Germany  was  reviving  old  acquaint- 
anceships and  forming  new,  studying  the  historic  relics  of  old 
Strasburg  under  the  shadow  of  its  lofty  minster,  and  relieving 
his  research  by  rides  and  walks,  now  with  student  and  now 
with  professor.  Early  in  August  he  and  Willoughby  returned 
to  England,  and  repaired  straightway  to  Summerford.  There, 
accordingly,  the  mystical  circuit  was  complete  once  more.  In 
a  day  or  two  the  discovery  was  made,  through  some  mysterious 
hints  dropped  by  Willoughby,  that  Atherton  had  brought  home 


I.]  Adolf  and  Hermann.  1 8 1 


a  treasure  from  the  Rhine.  Cross-examination  elicited  the  fact 
that  the  said  treasure  was  a  manuscript.  Something  to  do 
with  mysticism?  Partly  so.  Then  we  must  hear  it.  Atherton 
consented  without  pretending  reluctance.  The  document  pur- 
ported to  be  his  translation  of  a  narrative  discovered  among  the 
Strasburg  archives,  written  by  one  Adolf  Arnstein,  an  armourer  of 
that  city, — a  personage  who  appears  to  have  lived  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  and  kept  some  record  of  what  he  saw  and  heard. 

So  the  manuscript  was  read  at  intervals,  in  short  portions, 
sometimes  to  the  little  circle  grouped  on  the  grass  under  the 
trees,  sometimes  as  they  sat  in  the  house,  with  open  windows, 
to  let  in  the  evening  song  of  the  birds. 

Atherton  commenced  his  first  reading  as  follows  : — 

The  Chronicle  of  Adolf  Arnstein  of  Strasburg. 

This  book  was  begun  in  the  year  after  the  birth  of  our 
Lord,  one  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty.  IVhosoci'er 
readeth  this  book,  let  him  pray  for  the  soul  of  Adolf  Arnstein, 
a  poor  sinful  man,  who  wrote  it.  And  to  all  who  read  t/ie 
same,  or  hear  it  read,  may  God  grant  everlasting  life.     Amen. 

1320.  September.  St.  Mattheid's  Day. — I'hree  days  ago  I 
was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  Hermann  of  Fritzlar,'  who  h:is 
travelled  hither  from  Hesse  to  hear  Master  Eckart  preach.  How 
he  reminded  me  of  what  seem  old  times  to  me  now — ay,  old 
times,  though  I  am  but  twenty  this  day — of  the  days  when  my 

'  "V^e.  HeiligenleienoiWftxvwwxwwow  hood,   who,  without  entering  into  an 

Fritslar   has   been   recently   edited  by  order,   spent  the  greater  part  of  tiieir 

Franz    Pfeiffer,    in   his    Atisgahi:    der  time  in  the  exercises  of  religion,  and  of 

Deutschen   Mystiker  (Leipsig,    1845).  their    fortune    on     religious     objects. 

Hermann  says  himself  repeatedly  that  Though  he  could  not  write,  he  could 

he  had  caused  his  book  to  be  written  read,    and  his  book    is  confessedly  a 

X'ichrciben  lusscii)   and   there   is  every  compilation  from  many  books  and  from 

reason  to  believe  that  he  was,  like  Rul-  the  sermons  and  the  sayings  of  learned 

man  Merswin  and  Nicholas  of  Basle,  and  godly  men.     He  says,   Diz  buch 

his  contemporaries,  a  devout  layman,  ist  zu  sammene  gelesen  iizze  vile  ande- 

— one  of  a  class  among  the  laity  cha-  ren  bucheren  und  uzze  vile  predigaten 

racteristic  of  that  age  and  neighbour-  und  uzze  vil  V:riT^.-\.-'-Voi-reiie. 


1 82         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'*  Century.       [b.  vt. 

honoured  father  lived  and  I  was  a  merry  boy  of  fifteen,  little 
thinking  that  I  should  so  soon  be  left  alone  to  play  the  man  as 
I  best  might. 

Hermann  is  the  cause  of  my  writing  this.  We  were  talking 
together  yesterday  in  this  room,  while  the  workmen  were  ham- 
mering in  the  yard  below,  and  the  great  forge-bellows  were 
groaning  away  as  usual.  I  told  him  how  I  envied  his  wonder- 
ful memory.  He  replied  by  reminding  me  that  I  could  write 
and  he  could  not.  '  Ah,'  said  I,  '  but  your  mind  is  full  of 
things  worth  writing  down.  You  scarcely  hear  or  read  a 
legend,  a  hymn,  or  a  godly  sermon,  but  it  is  presently  your 
own,  and  after  it  has  lain  working  in  your  brain  for  some  time, 
you  produce  it  again,  and  say  or  sing  it  after  a  way  you  have, 
so  that  it  is  quite  delightful  to  hear.' 

[The  night  before  last  I  had  taken  him  down  into  the  work- 
shop, and  told  the  men  to  stop  their  clatter  for  awhile,  and  hear 
something  to  do  them  good — none  of  your  Latin  mumbling,  but 
a  godly  history  in  their  mother-tongue.  And  then  did  my  friend 
tell  them  the  Legend  of  Saint  Dorothea,  with  such  a  simple  ten- 
derness that  my  rough  fellows  stood  like  statues  till  he  had  done. 
I  saw  a  tear  run  down  Hans'  sooty  face,  making  a  white  channel 
over  his  cheek.  He  would  have  it  afterwards  that  some  dust 
had  blown  into  his  eye.] 

*  My  good  friend,'  said  Hermann,  *  I  am  a  dozen  years  at  least 
older  than  you  ;  let  me  counsel  you  not  to  set  light  by  your  gift, 
and  let  it  lie  unused.  Had  I  that  same  scrivening  art  at  my 
service,  I  should  write  me  a  book  setting  iorth  what  I  heard  and 
observed  while  it  was  fresh  in  my  mind.  I  know  many  good 
men  who  would  hold  such  a  book,  written  by  a  God-fearing 
man,  as  great  treasure.  They  would  keep  it  with  care  and  hand 
it  down  to  those  who  came  after  them,  so  that  the  writer  thereof 
should  be  thought  on  when  his  hand  was  cold.  I  have  it  in  my 
thoughts  to  dictate  one  day  or  other  to  some  cunning  scribe, 


c.  1.]  Btishiess  and  Heresy.  183 

some  of  the  legends  I  so  love.  Haply  they  may  not  be  the 
worse  for  their  passage  through  the  mind  of  a  plain  man  with  a 
loving  heart,  who  has  carried  them  about  with  him  whither- 
soever he  went,  lived  in  them  and  grown  one  with  them.  But 
you  can  do  much  more  if  you  list.  I  know,  moreover,  that  you, 
Adolf,  are  not  the  man  to  turn  away  from  your  father's  old 
friends  because  the  great  ones  despise  and  daily  vex  them.' 

This  evening  I  do  herewith  begin  to  act  on  the  resolution  his 
words  awakened.  I  am  but  a  layman,  and  so  is  he,  but  for  that 
matter  I  have  hearkened  to  teachers  who  tell  me  that  the  lay- 
man may  be  nearer  to  heaven  than  the  clerk,  and  that  all  such 
outer  differences  are  of  small  account  in  the  eye  of  God. 

My  father  was  an  armourer  and  president  of  the  guild.  All 
looked  up  to  him  as  the  most  fearless  and  far-seeing  of  our 
counsellors.  He  taught  us  how  to  watch  and  to  resist  the  en- 
croachments of  the  bishop  and  the  nobles.  We  have  to  thank 
his  wisdom  mainly  that  our  position  has  been  not  a  little 
strengthened  of  late.  Still,  how  much  wrong  have  we  often- 
times to  sufter  from  the  senate  and  their  presidents  !  Strasburg 
prospers — marvellously,  considering  the  dreadful  pestilence 
seven  years  back ;  but  there  is  much  to  amend.  Heaven  knows  ! 
My  father  fell  on  a  journey  to  Spires,  in  an  affray  with  Von 
Otterbach  and  his  black  band.  He  could  use  well  the  weapons  he 
made,  and  wounded  Von  Otterbach  well  nigh  to  the  death  before 
he  was  overpowered  by  numbers.  The  Rhenish  League  was 
strong  enough,  and  for  once  bold  enough,  to  avenge  him  well. 
That  castle  of  Otterbach,  which  every  traveller  and  merchant 
trembled  to  pass,  stands  now  ruinous  and  empty.  I,  alas !  was 
away  the  while,  on  my  apprentice-travels.  The  old  evil  is  but 
little  abated,  though  our  union  has,  I  doubt  not,  prevented  many 
of  the  worst  mischiefs  of  the  fist-law.  Every  rock  along  the 
Rhine  is  castled.     They  espy  us  approaching  from  far  off,  and 


184        German  Mysticism  in  the  \\^^  Century.         [b.  n. 

at  every  turn  have  we  to  wrangle,  and  now  and  then,  if  strong 
enough,  to  fight,  with  these  vultures  about  their  robber-toll. 
Right  thankful  am  I  that  my  father  died  a  man's  death,  fight- 
ing— that  I  have  not  to  imagine  his  fate  as  like  that  of  some, 
who,  falling  alive  into  their  hands,  have  been  horribly  tortured, 
and  let  down  by  a  windlass,  with  dislocated  limbs,  into  the 
loathsome  dog-hole  of  a  keep,  to  writhe  and  die  by  inches  in 
putrid  filth  and  darkness.  Yet  our  very  perils  give  to  our 
calling  an  enterprise  and  an  excitement  it  would  otherwise  lack. 
The  merchant  has  his  chivalry  as  well  as  the  knight.  More- 
over, as  rich  old  Gersdorf  says,  risk  and  profit  run  together — 
though,  as  to  money,  I  have  as  much  already  as  I  care  for.  We 
thrive,  despite  restrictions  and  extortions  innumerable,  legal  and 
illegal.  My  brother  Otto  sends  me  word  from  Bohemia  that  he 
prospers.  The  Bohemian  throats  can  never  have  enough  of  our 
wines,  and  we  are  good  customers  for  their  metal.  Otto  was 
always  a  rover.  He  talks  of  journeying  to  the  East.  It  seems 
but  yesterday  that  he  and  I  were  boys  together,  taking  our 
reading  and  writing  lessons  from  that  poor  old  Waldensian 
whom  my  father  sheltered  in  our  house.  How  we  all  loved  him !  I 
never  saw  my  father  so  troubled  at  anything  as  at  his  death.  Our 
house  has  been  ever  since  a  refuge  for  such  persecuted  wanderers. 
The  wrath  of  Popes,  prelates,  and  inquisitors  hath  been  espe- 
cially kindled  of  late  years  against  sundry  communities,  sects, 
and  residues  of  sects,  which  are  known  by  the  name  of  Beg- 
hards,  Beguines,  Lollards,  Kathari,  Fratricelli,  Brethren  of  the 
Free  Spirit,^  &c.  Councils,  they  tell  me,  have. been  held  at 
Cologne,  Mayence,  and  Narbonne,  to   suppress  the   Beghards. 

*  Concerning  these   sects,    see  UU-  origin ;    details    the    various    charges 

m2xm,  Reformatoren  vpr  der  Rcforma-  brought  against   them,   and  gives  tiie 

tion,    vol.    ii.   pp.   1-18.      The    fullest  bulls  and  acis  issued  for  their  suppres- 

account  is  given  of  them  in  a  masterly  sion.     See    especially    the  circular  ci 

I  atin  treatise  by  ^\.o%\ie.\m,De  Begfiar-  JohnOchsenstein,  Bishop  of  Strasburg, 

dis  ct  Beguiiiabvs.   He  enters  at  length  cap.  iv.  §  xi.  p.  255. 
nto  the  discussion  of  their  name  and 


e.  ,.]  The  Beghards.  185 

Yet  their  numerous  communities  in  the  Netherlands  and  the 
Rhineland  are  a  blessing  to  the  poor  folk,  to  whom  the  hierarchy 
are  a  curse.  The  clergy  are  jealous  of  them.  They  live  single, 
they  work  with  their  hands,  they  nurse  the  sick,  they  lay  out 
the  dead,  they  lead  a  well-ordered  and  godly  life  in  their  Be- 
guinasia,  under  the  Magister  or  Magistra;  but  they  are  bound 
by  no  vows,  fettered  by  no  harassing  minutiae  of  austerity,  and 
think  the  liberty  of  the  Spirit  better  than  monkish  servitude. 
Some  of  them  have  fallen  into  the  notions  of  those  enthusiastic 
Franciscans  who  think  the  end  of  the  world  at  hand,  and  that 
we  live  in,  or  near,  the  days  of  Antichrist.  And  no  wonder, 
when  the  spiritual  heads  of  Christendom  are  so  unchristian. 
There  are  some  sturdy  beggars  who  wander  about  the  country 
availing  themselves  of  the  name  of  Beghard  to  lead  an  idle  life. 
These  I  excuse  not.  They  say  some  of  these  Beghards  claim 
the  rank  of  apostles— that  they  have  subterranean  rooms,  where 
both  sexes  meet  to  hear  blasphemous  preachers  announce  their 
equality  with  God.  Yea,  worse  charges  than  these— even  of 
grossest  lewdness— do  they  bring.  I  know  many  of  them,  both 
here  and  at  Cologne,  but  nothing  of  this  sort  have  I  seen,  or 
credibly  heard  of.  They  are  the  enemies  of  clerical  pomp  and 
usurpation,  and  some,  I  fear,  hold  strange  fantastical  notions, 
coming  I  know  not  whence.  But  the  churchmen  themselves 
are  at  fault,  and  answerable  for  it  all.  They  leave  the  artisans 
and  labourers  in  besotted  ignorance,  and  when  they  do  get  a 
soUtary  religious  idea  that  comes  home  to  them,  ten  to  one  but 
it  presently  confounds  or  overthrows  what  little  sense  they  have. 
Many  deeply  religious  minds  among  us,  both  of  laity  and  clergy, 
are  at  heart  as  indignant  at  the  crimes  of  the  hierarchy  as  can 
be  the  wildest  mob-leading  fanatic  who  here  and  there  appears 
for  a  moment,  haranguing  the  populace,  denouncing  the  de. 
nouncers,  and  bidding  men  fight  sin  with  sin.  We  who  sigh 
for  reform,  who  must  have  more   spiritual  freedom,  have  our 


1 86        German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.        [b. 


secret  communications,  our  meetings  now  and  then  for  counsel, 
our  signs  and  counter-signs.  Folks  call  the  Rhineland  the 
Parsons'  Walk— so  full  is  it  of  the  clergy,  so  enjoyed  and  lorded 
over  by  them.  Verily,  it  is  at  least  as  full  of  those  hidden 
ones,  who,  in  various  wise  which  they  call  heresy,  do  worship 
God  without  man  coming  in  between. 

The  tide  of  the  time  is  with  us."  Our  once  famous  Godfrey 
of  Strasburg  is  forgotten.  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach  is  the 
universal  model.  His  Farzival  and  Titurel  live  on  the  lips  of 
the  many  rhymesters  and  minstrels  who  wander  from  town  to 
town  now,  as  once  they  did  from  court  to  court  and  castle  to 
castle.  It  is  the  religiousness  and  the  learning  of  Wolfram 
that  finds  favour  for  him  and  countless  imitators.  This  is  the 
good  sign  I  mean.  Our  singers  have  turned  preachers.  They 
are  practical,  after  their  fashion.  They  are  a  Book  of  Proverbs, 
and  give  us  maxims,  riddles,  doctrines,  science,  in  their  verses. 
If  they  sing  of  chivalry,  it  is  to  satirize  chivalry — such  knight- 
hood as  now  we  have.  They  are  spreading  and  descending 
towards  the  people.  Men  may  have  their  songs  of  chivalry  in 
Spain,  where,  under  the  blessed  St.  lago,  good  knights  and 
true  have  a  real  crusade  against  those  heathen  hounds  the 
Moors,  whom  God  confound.  But  here  each  petty  lord  in  his 
casde  has  nothing  to  do  but  quarrel  with  his  neighbour  and 
oppress  all  weaker  than  himself  What  to  such  men,  robbing, 
drinking,  devouring  their  living  with  harlots,  are  Arthur  and 
the  Round  Table,  or  Oliver  and  Roland?  So  the  singers 
come  to  us.  In  good  sooth,  the  old  virtues  of  knighthood- 
its  truth  and  honour,  its  chastity  and  courage — are  found  far 
more  among  the  citizens  than  with  the  nobles.  We  relish  the  sage 
precepts  and  quaint  abstruseness  of  Reimar  of  Zweter,  though 

3  Anthority  for  these  statements  con-      der  foetischen  National-Literatur  der 
cerning  the  literature    of  the  period,      Deutschen,  part  vi.  J}  i,  2  5 
will  be  found  in  Gervinus,  Geschichte  '    ' 


c.  I.]  Troubles  in  Germany.  187 

he  be  somewhat  of  a  pedant.  Albertus  Magnus  is  the  hero 
with  him,  instead  of  Charlemagne.  His  learning  is  a  marvel, 
and  he  draws  all  morality  by  allegory  out  of  the  Seven  Sciences 
in  most  wondrous  wise.  Frauenlob  himself  (alas  !  I  heard 
last  year  that  he  was  dead)  could  not  praise  fair  ladies  more 
fairly.  He  assails,  in  the  boldest  fashion,  the  Pope  and  Rome, 
and  their  daughters  Cologne  and  Mayence.  The  last  time  he 
was  over  here  from  Bohemia,  we  latighed  nigh  to  bursting  at 
his  caricature  of  a  tournament,  and  applauded  till  the  rafters 
rang  again  when  he  said  that  not  birth,  but  virtue,  made  true 
nobleness.  Then  our  ballads  and  popular  fables  are  full  of 
satire  on  the  vices  of  ecclesiastics.  All  this  tends  to  keep  men 
awake  to  the  abuses  of  the  day,  and  to  deepen  their  desire  for 
reform.  We  shall  need  all  the  strength  we  can  gather,  political 
and  religious,  if  in  the  coming  struggle  the  name  of  German  is 
not  to  be  a  shame.  Our  Holy  Father  promises  to  indemnify 
himself  for  the  humiliation  he  suffers  at  Avignon  by  heaping 
insults  upon  Germany.  If  Louis  of  Bavaria  conquers  Frederick, 
I  should  not  wonder  if  we  Strasburgers  wake  up  some  morning 
and  find  ourselves  excommunicate.  All  true  hearts  must  be 
stirring — we  shall  have  cowards  and  sluggards  enow  on  all 
hands. 

Last  month  the  Emperor  Louis  was  here  with  his  army  for 
a  few  days.  Our  bishop  Ochsenstein  and  the  Zorn  family 
espouse  the  cause  of  his  rival  Frederick  the  Fair.  Louis  has 
on  his  side,  however,  the  best  of  us — the  family  of  the  Miil- 
lenheim,  the  chief  burghers,  and  the  people  generally.  Every 
true  German  heart,  every  hater  of  foreign  domination,  must  be 
with  him.  Many  a  skirmish  has  there  been  in  our  streets 
between  the  retainers  of  the  two  great  houses  of  Zorn  and 
Miillenheim,  and  now  their  enmity  is  even  more  bitter  than 
heretofore.  The  senate  received  Louis  with  royal  honours. 
When  Frederick  was  here  five  years  ago,  we  would  only  enter- 


1 8  8         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'    Century.        [n.  vi 

tain  him  as  a  guest.  The  clergy  and  most  of  the  nobles 
hailed  him  as  Emperor.  Now,  when  Louis  came,  it  was  their 
turn  to  stand  aloof.  There  were  few  of  them  in  the  cathedral 
the  other  day,  when  he  graciously  confirmed  our  privileges. 
The  bishop  issued  orders  to  put  a  stop  to  the  performance  of 
all  church  offices  while  Louis  was  here  ;  whereupon,  either 
from  prudence  or  consideration  for  our  souls,  he  shortened  his 
visit.* 

1320.  September.  St.  Maurices  Day. — A  long  conversation 
with  Hermann  to-day.  He  has  heard  Eckart  repeatedly,  and, 
as  I  looked  for,  is  both  startled  and  perplexed.  Of  a  truth  it 
is  small  marvel  that  such  preaching  as  his  stirred  up  all 
Cologne,  gathered  crowds  of  wondering  hearers,  made  him 
fast  friends  and  deadly  enemies,  and  roused  the  wrath  of  the 
heretic-hunting  archbishop.  Hermann  brought  me  home  some  of 
the  things  this  famous  doctor  said  which  most  struck  him.  I 
wrote  them  down  from  his  lips,  and  place  them  here. 

'  He  who  is  at  all  times  alone  is  worthy  of  God.  He  who  is 
at  all  times  at  home,  to  him  is  God  present.  He  who  standeth 
at  all  times  in  a  present  Now,  in  him  doth  God  the  Father 
bring  forth  his  son  without  ceasing.^ 

'  He  who  finds  one  thing  otherwise  than  another — to  whom 
God  is  dearer  in  one  thing  than  another,  that  man  is  carnal, 
and  still  afar  off  and  a  child.  But  he  to  whom  God  is  alike  in 
all  things  hath  become  a  man." 

■•  Johannes   Taiiler  von  Sirasbiirg,  ^  Meister  Eghart  spracb  :  vnt  wem 

by  Dr.  Carl  Schmidt,  pp.  8-10  ;  and  La-  in  einem    anders    ist    denne   in  dem 

guille's  Histoire  d' Alsace,  liv.  xxiv.  andern,  vnt  dem  got  lieber  ist  in  eime 

5  Meister  Eghart  spricht  :    wer  alle  denne  in  dem  andern,  der  mensche  ist 

cit  allein  ist,  der  ist  gottes  wirdige  ;  vnt  grobe,   vnt   noch   verre  vnt  ein  kint. 

wer  alliu  cit  do  heimenen  ist,  demist  Aber  dem  got  gelich  ist  in  alien,  der  ist 

got  gegenwiirtig  ;  vnt  wer  alliu  cit  stat  ce  man  worden. — Ibid. 

in  einem   gegenwiirtigen  nu,  in  dem  Both  this   saying  and  the  foregoing 

gebirt  got  der  vatter  sinen   sune  an  are  e.\pressions  for  that  total  indiffer- 

vnderlas. — Spriiche  Deutscker    Mysli-  ence  and  self-abandonment  so  strenu- 

ker,\nyMa.c\!iexndig&\'sAltdeutschesLese-  ously  inculcated  by  the  mystics.     He 

buck,  p.  889.  who  lives    weaned  from    the  world, 


c.  I.]  From  the  kjicivn  God  to  the  unknown.  189 

*  All  that  is  in  the  Godhead  is  one.  Thereof  can  we  say 
nothing.  It  is  above  all  names,  above  all  nature.  The  essence 
of  all  creatures  is  eternally  a  divine  life  in  Deity.  God  works. 
So  doth  not  the  Godhead.  Therein  are  they  distinguished,— 
in  working  and  not  working.  The  end  of  all  things  is  the 
hidden  darkness  of  the  eternal  Godhead,  unknown  and  never 
to  be  known.' 

'  I  declare,  by  good  truth  and  truth  everlasting,  that  in 
every  man  who  hath  utterly  abandoned  self,  God  must  com- 
municate Himself  according  to  all  His  power,  so  completely 
that  he  retains  nothing  in  His  life,  in  His  essence,  in  His 
Nature,  and  in  His  Godhead — He  must  communicate  all  to 
the  bringing  forth  of  fruit.' 

'  When  the  Will  is  so  united  that  it  becometh  a  One  in  one- 
ness, then  doth  the  Heavenly  Father  produce  his  only-begotten 
Son  in  Himself  and  in  me.     Wherefore  in  Himself  and  in  me  ? 


alone  with  God,  without  regrets,  with-  ist   noch  gut  noch  besser,  noch  aller- 

out  anticipations,  '  stands  in  a  present  best,  vnd  ick  thue  also  unrecht,  wenn 

Now,'    and    sees  the   divine   love  as  ick  Got  gut  heisse,  rechte  ase  ob  ick 

clearly  in  his  sorrows  as  in  his  joys,-^  oder   er  etvvas   wiz   weiss  und  ick  es 

does  not   find    'one  thing  other  than  schwarz  heisse. — Ibid.  p.    675.     This 

another.'      There   is   exaggeration  in  last  assertion  was  one  of  the  counts  of 

suppressing,   as  Eckart  would  do,  the  accusation  in  the  bull  of  1330. 
instinct  of  thanksgiving  for  special  be-  *  Martensen's  iMeister Eckarf  (Yiam- 

nefaction  ;  but  in  his  strong  language  burg,  1842),  p.  22. — The  divine  com- 

lies  couched  a  great  truth,— that  only  munication  assumes  with   Eckart  the 

in   utter  self-surrender  can  man  find  form  of  philosophical  necessity.     The 

abiding  peace.  rnan  emptied  of  Self  is  infallibly  full 

^  AUesdas  indergottheytist,  dasist  of  Deity,  after  the  fashion  of  the  old 

ein,  vnd  davon  ist  nicht  zu  sprechen.  principle,    '  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum." 

Got  der  wiircket,  die  gotheyt  nit,  sy  Yet  even  this  doctrine  is  not  wholly 

hat  auch  nicht  zu  wiirckende'  in  ir  ist  false.     It  is  the  misrepresentation  of  a 

auch  kein  werck.    Got  vnt  gotheyt  hat  Christian  truth.     Its  correlative  verity 

underscheyd,   an  wiircken  vnd  an  nit  is  this,- that  the  kingdom   of  grace, 

wiircken.  like  the  kingdom  of  nature,  has  its  im- 

Was  ist  das  letst  end?     Es  ist  die  mutable   laws.      He   who  seeks  shall 

verborgen  finsternusz  der  ewigen  got-  find  ;  as  we  sow  we  reap,  with  unerring 

heit,  vnd  ist  unbekant,  vnd  wirt  nym-  certainty.    Gravitation  is  not  more  sure 

mer'me    bekant.        (See    a    paper   on  than  the  announcement,    '  With  that 

Eckart,  by  Dr.  Carl    Schmidt  in  the  man  will  I  dwell  who  is  of  a  meek  and 

Theol.'  Stud.    u.    Kritikeii,    1839,   3,  contrite  spirit.' 
p.  693.)     Comp.  the  following  : — Got 


1 90        German  Mysticism  in  tJie  i  \^^  Century.        [b.  vi, 

I  am  one  with  Him — He  cannot  exclude  me.  In  the  self- 
same operation  doth  the  Holy  Ghost  receive  his  existence,  and 
proceeds  from  me  as  from  God.  Wherefore  ?  I  am  in  God, 
and  if  the  Holy  Ghost  deriveth  not  his  being  from  me,  He 
deriveth  it  not  from  God.     I  am  in  nowise  excluded.' 

'  There  is  something  in  the  soul  which  is  above  the  soul, 
divine,  simple,  an  absolute  Nothing,  rather  unnamed  than 
named,  unknown  than  Jcnown.  So  long  as  thou  lookest  on 
thyself  as-  x  Somcf/iing,  so  long  thou  knowest  as  little  what  this 
is  as  my  mouth  knows  what  colour  is,  or  as  my  eye  knows 
what  taste  is.  Of  this  I  am  wont  to  speak  in  my  sermons,  and 
sometimes  I  have  called  it  a  Power,  sometimes  an  uncreated 
Light,  sometimes  a  divine  Spark.  It  is  absolute  and  free  from 
all  names  and  forms,  as  God  is  free  and  absolute  in  Himself 
It  is  higher  than  knowledge,  higher  than  love,  higher  than 
grace.  For  in  all  these  there  is  still  distinction.  In  this  power 
doth  blossom  and  flourish  God,  with  all  His  Godhead,  and 
the  Spirit  flourisheth  in  God.  In  this  power  doth  the  Father 
bring  forth  His  only-begotten  Son,  as  essentially  as  in  Himself, 
and  in  this  light  ariseth  the  Holy  Ghost.  This  Spark  rejects 
all  creatures,  and  will  have  only  God,  simply  as  he  is  in  Him- 
self. It  rests  satisfied  neither  with  the  Father,  nor  the  Son, 
nor  the  Holy  Ghost,  nor  with  the  three  Persons,  as  far  as  each 
exists  in  its  respective  attributes.     I  will  say  what  will  sound 

«  Martensen,  p.   23.     Comp.  Sitid.  accretion  on  the  Universal  Soul  with 

11.  Krtt.  loc.  cit.     Alles  das  denn  got  which  we  are  in  contact.      Escapincr 

yn  gegab  seinem  eingebornen  sun,  das  this  consciousness,  we  merge  in— that 

hat    er    mir   gegeben.   .  .  .   Was  got  is,   we  become— the    Universal   Soul. 

7c;«;-6-^d'/,  rt'rf^  ?j-/' ««,  darumb  gebiret  er  We  are  brought  into  the  Essence,— 

mich  seinen  sun,  on  allerunderscheyd.  the  calm,  unknown  oneness  beyond'all 

—These  words  exhibit  the  pantheistic  manifestation,    above  creation,  provi- 

principle  on  which  this  assumption  is  dence,    or  grace.      This    is   Eckart's 

based.    All  spirit  (whether  in  so  called  escape    from   distinction,— lapse   into 

cieature   or  Creator)   is    substantially  the  totality  of  spirit.    This  doctrine  he 

one  and  the  same.     It  cannot  be  di-  teaches,  not  in  opposition  to  the  cur- 

vided  ;  it  can  have  no  distinctive  opera-  rent  Christian  doctrine,  but  as  a  some- 

tions.      Our    dividual    personal    con-  thing  above  it,— at  once  its  higher  in- 

-iciousness  is,  as  it  were,  a  temporary  terpretation  and  its  climax. 


I.]  From  the  known  God  to  the  uiikiunvn.  191 


more  marvellous  yet.  This  Light  is  satisfied  only  with  the 
super-essential  essence.  It  is  bent  on  entering  into  the  simple 
Ground,  the  still  Waste,  wherein  is  no  distinction,  neither 
Father,  Son,  nor  Holy  Ghost,— into  the  Unity  where  no  man 
dwelleth.  There  is  it  satisfied  in  the  light,  there  it  is  one  ; 
then  is  it  in  itself,  as  this  Ground  is  a  simple  stillness  in  itself, 
immoveable ;  and  yet  by  this  Immobility  are  all  things 
moved." 

'  God  in  himself  was  not  God— in  the  creature  only  hath  He 
become  God.  I  ask  to  be  rid  of  God— that  is,  that  God,  by 
his  grace,  would  bring  me  into  the  Essence— that  Essence 
which  is  above  God  and  above  distinction.  I  would  enter  into 
that  eternal  Unity  which  was  mine  before  all  time,  when  I  was 
what  I  would,  and  would  what  I  was  \ — into  a  state  above  all 
addition  or  diminution  ;— into  the  Immobility  whereby  all  is 
moved." 

'  Folks  say  to  me  often—"  Pray  God  for  me."     Then  I  think 

•"  These  statements  concerning  the  Daz  meinet,  daz  di  sele  einen  funken  in 

'funckhn  der  vernunfft'   are   the  sub-  ir  hat,  der  ist  ingoteewiclichengewest 

stance  of  passages  Eiiven  by  Martensen,  leben  und  licht.     Und  dirre  funke  ist 

pp.   26     27,    and  'Schmidt    [Stud.  u.  mit  der  sele  geschaften  in  alien  men- 

Krit.  I.  c  )  pp.   707,    709.— Ich   sprich  schen   und  ist  ein    luter  licht  m  ime 

es   bey  <^utter  warheit,   und  bey  yem-  selber  und  strafetallewegeummesunde 

merwerelider  warheit,  und  bey  ewiger  und  hat  ein  stete  heisclien  zu  der  tu- 

warheit,  das  disem  liechte  nit  beniiget  gende  und  knget   allewege    wider  in 

an  dem    einfaltigem    stilstanden   got-  sinen    urspning.     .     .    .    Dar    umme 

lichen  wesen,  von  wannen  disz  wesen  heizen  in  etliche  meistere  einen  wechter 

harkommet,  es  will  in  den  einfaltigen  der  sele.     Also   sprach    Daniel  :  'der 

grundc  in  die  stillen   wuste,  das   nye  wechter  uf  dem  turme  der  rufet  gar 

underschevd   ingeluget,   weder  vatter  sere.    Etliche  heizen  disen  funken  einen 

noch  sun  noch  heiliger  geist,  in  dem  haven  der  sele.     Etliche  heizen  in  di 

einichen     da  niemant  daheim  ist,  da  worbele  (axis,  or  centre)  der  sele.  Ete- 

beniitret  es  im  liechte,   und  da  ist  es  liche  heizen  in  ein  gotechen  m  der  sele. 

einicher   denn  es  sev  in  im  hclber,  wann  Eteliche  heizen  in  ein  antlitze  der  sele. 

diser   c^rundt    ist    ein    einleltig    stille  liteliclie  heizen  iiiicllcctiis,  daz  ist  em 

die  in^'ir  selber  unbeweglich   ist,  und  inslende  kraft  in  der  sele.    Etliche  hei- 

von    diser    unbeweglichkeit     werdent  zen  in  shidn-ish.     Etliche   heizen  in 

beweget  alle  ding,  cS:c.     Hermann  von  daz  v.6  der  sele.    Etliche  heizen  in  daz 

Fritslar,    in    a    remarkable    passage,  nirgen  der   zk\Q.—Hcihgeiihbeii.     Di 

enumerates  the  various  and  conflicting  dnt/e  messc,]).  2,^. 
names  given  to  this  organ  of  mysticism.  "  Martensen,  p.  27.     Schmidt,  loc. 

'  Und  das  lebtn  was  daz  licht  der  lute.'  cit. 


192         German  Mysticism  in  the  lA,     Century.        [b.  vi. 

with  myself,  "  Why  go  ye  out  ?  Why  abide  ye  not  in  your  own 
selves,  and  take  hold  on  your  own  possession  ?  Ye  have  all 
truth  essentially  within  you  ?"  ^'^ 

'  God  and  I  are  one  in  knowing.  God's  Essence  is  His 
knowing,  and  God's  knowing  makes  me  to  know  Him.  There- 
fore is  His  knowing  my  knowing.  The  eye  whereby  I  see  God 
is  the  same  eye  whereby  He  seeth  me.  Mine  eye  and  the  eye 
of  God  are  one  eye,  one  vision,  one  knowledge,  and  one  love.''' 

'  If  any  man  hath  understood  this  sermon,  it  is  well  for  him. 
Had  not  a  soul  of  you  been  here,  I  must  have  spoken  the 
very  same  words.  He  who  hath  not  understood  it,  let  him  not 
trouble  his  heart  therewith,  for  as  long  as  a  man  is  not  himself 
like  unto  this  truth,  so  long  will  he  never  understand  it,  seeing 
that  it  is  no  truth  of  reflection,  to  be  thought  out,  but  is  come 
directly  out  of  the  heart  of  God  without  medium.' " 

Of  all  this  I  can  understand  scarcely  anything.  The  per- 
petual incarnation  of  God  in  good  Christians,  the  nameless 
Nothing,  the  self-unfolding  and  self-infolding  of  God  (I  know 
not  what  words  to  use)  are  things  too  high  for  my  grosser 
apprehension.  I  shall  let  the  sayings  lie  here  ;  some  one  else 
who  reads  may  comprehend  them.  I  am  content  to  be  a 
child  in  such  matters.  I  look  with  av/e  and  admiration  on 
men  who  have  attained  while  yet  in  the  flesh  heights  of  wisdom 
which  will  be,  perhaps  to  all  eternity,  beyond  the  reach  of 
such  as  I  am. 

1320.  Odoba:  St.  Francis^  Day. — Went  with  Hermann 
this  morning  to  hear  mass.  Master  Eckart  preached  again. 
Dr.  Tauler  in  the  church.  How  every  one  loves  that  man  ! 
As  several  of  his  brethren  made  their  way  to  their  places,  I 
saw  the  people  frown  on  some  of  them,  and  laugh  and  leer  to 
each  other  as  two  or  three  of  them  passed.     They  had  reason, 

"^  The  passage  in  Martensen,  p.  20.  '^  Ibid.  p.  29. 

^  Martensen,  pp.  19,  29. 


c.  I.}  Disinterested  Love.  1^3 

I  know,  to  hate  and  to  despise  certain  among  them.  But  to 
Tauler  all  bowed,  and  many  voices  blessed  him.  He  has  a 
kind  heart  to  feel  for  us,  the  commonalty.  He  and  his  sermons 
are  one  and  the  same.  He  means  all  he  says,  and  we  can 
understand  much,  at  least,  of  what  he  means.  There  is  a  cold 
grandeur  about  Master  Eckart.  He  seems  above  emotion  : 
his  very  face,  all  intellect,  says  it  is  a  weakness  to  feel.  At 
him  we  wonder ;  with  Master  Tauler  we  weep.  How  reverently 
did  Tauler  listen,  as  a  son  to  a  father,  to  the  words  of  the 
great  Doctor.  No  doubt  he  understood  every  syllable.  He 
is  and  shall  be  my  sole  confessor.  I  will  question  him,  some 
day,  concerning  these  lofty  doctrines  whereby  it  would  seem 
that  the  poorest  beggar  may  outpass  in  wisdom  and  in  blessed- 
ness all  the  Popes  of  Christendom. 

Master  Eckart  said  to-day  : — '  Some  people  are  for  seeing  God 
with  their  eyes,  as  they  can  see  a  cow,  and  would  love  God  as 
they  love  a  cow  (which  thou  lovest  for  the  milk  and  for  the 
cheese,  and  for  thine  own  profit).  Thus  do  all  those  who  love 
God  for  the  sake  of  outward  riches  or  of  inward  comfort ;  they 
do  not  love  aright,  but  seek  only  themselves  and  their  own 
advantage.'* 

*  God  is  a  pure  good  in  Himself,  and  therefore  will  He  dwell 
nowhere  save  in  a  pure  soul.  There  He  may  pour  Himself  out  ; 
into  that  He  can  wholly  flow.  What  is  Purity?  It  is  that 
man  should  have  turned  himself  away  from  all  creatures,  and 
have  set  his  heart  so  entirely  on  the  pure  good,  that  no  creature 
is  to  him  a  comfort,  that  he  has  no  desire  for  aught  creaturely, 
save  as  far  as  he  may  apprehend  therein  the  pure  good  which  is 
God.     And  as  little  as  the  bright  eye  can  endure  aught  foreign 

'i  Etlich   lent  wollent  got  mit  den  leut  die  got  liebhand,  iini  iis/.wendigen 

ovi"'en   ansehn,    als  sy  ein  ku  ansent  reichtuin,  oder  umb  inwendigen  trost, 

unnd  wollent  gott  liebhan,  als  sy  ein  und   die    hand   gott    nit    rccht    lieb, 

ku  licbhaben  (die  liastu  lieb  umb  die  sunder  sy  suchent  sich   selbs   und   if 

milch,  und  umb  den  kiltz,  und   umb  cigen  mwz. —Sc/i mid f,  712. 
dein  eigen  nutz).     Also  thund  alle  die 

VOL.  I.  0 


<y 


194         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        fe.  ^•I. 

in  it,  so  little  can  the  pure  soul  bear  anything  in  it,  any  stain, 
aught  between  it  and  God.  To  it  all  creatures  are  pure  to 
enjoy,  for  it  enjoyeth  all  creatures  in  God,  and  God  in  all  crea- 
tures. Yea,  so  pure  is  that  soul  that  she  seeth  through  herself, 
she  needeth  not  to  seek  God  afar  off,  she  finds  him  in  herself, 
when,  in  her  natural  purity,  she  hath  flowed  out  into  the  super- 
natural of  the  pure  Godhead.  And  thus  is  she  in  God  and  God 
in  her,  and  what  she  doeth  that  she  doeth  in  God  and  God  doeth 
it  in  her." 

'  Then  shall  a  man  be  truly  poor  when  he  is  as  free  from  his 
creature  will  as  he  was  before  he  was  born.  And  I  say  to  you, 
by  the  eternal  truth,  that  so  long  as  ye  desire  to  fulfil  the  will 
of  God,  and  have  any  desire  after  eternity  and  God,  so  long  are 
ye  not  truly  poor.  He  alone  hath  true  spiritual  poverty  who 
wills  nothing,  knows  nothing,  desires  nothing." 

'  For  us,  to  follow  truly  what  God  willeth,  is  to  follow  that 
whereto  we  are  most  inclined, — whereto  we  feel  most  frequent 
inward  exhortation  and  strongest  attraction.  The  inner  voice 
is  the  voice  of  God.'  ^' 

"•  Got   ist    eiii    luter  guot   an   ime  das  iibernatiurliche  der  Intern  gotbeit. 

selben,  vnt  do  von  wiler  nienen  wonen  vnt  also  ist  si  in  got,  vnt  got  in  ir  ;  vnt 

denne  in  einer  Intern  sele  ;  in  die  mag  was    si  tuot,    das  tuot  si  in  got,   vnt 

er  sich  ergiessen  vnt  genzeclichen  in  si  tuot  es  got  in  ir. —  Wackeniagel,   p. 

fliessen.   was  ist  luterkeit  ?  das  ist  das  891. 

sich  der  mensche  gekeret  habe  von  '''  Wann  sol  der  mensch  warlich  arm 
alien  creaturen,  vnt  sin  herce  so  gar  iif  sein,  so  soil  er  seynes  geschaffnen 
gerichtet  habe  gen  dem  Intern  guot,  willes  also  ledig  sein,  als  er  was  do  er 
das  iine  kein  creature  trcestlichen  si,  noch  nit  was.  Und  ich  sag  euch  bey 
vnt  ir  ouch  nit  begere  denne  als  vil  als  der  ewigen  warheit,  als  lang  ir  willen 
si  das  Inter  guot,  das  got  ist,  darinne  hand  zu  crj'iillcitd  den  willeii  gottes, 
begriften  mag.  vnt  also  wenig  das  viid  icht  begeniiig  hand  der  czoigkcit 
liechte  ouge  icht  in  ime  erliden  niag,  iind  gotlcs,  also  lang  seind  ir  iiilt 
also  wenig  mag  din  Inter  sele  icht  an  rccht  arm,  wann  das  ist  ein  arm 
ir  erliden  keine  vermasung  vnt  das  si  mensch  der  nicht  wil,  noch  nicht  be- 
vermitlen  mag.  ir  werdent  alia  crea-  kennet,  noch  nicht  begeret — Schmidt, 
turen  Inter  ce  niessen  :  wanne  si  nius-  p.  716.  Here  again  is  the  most  ex- 
set  alle  creaturen  in  got  vnt  got  in  travagant  expression  possible  of  the 
alien  creaturen.  Donne  si  ist  also  Aoc\x\ne.C){  saintc  indifference,  xwcoxn- 
luter,  das  si  sich  selbin  dnrschovvet,  parison  with  which  Madame  Guyon  is 
denne  endarf  si  got  nit  verre  snochen  :  moderation  itself, 
si  vindei  in  ir  selben  wanne  s  in  ir  -"^  See  Schmidt,  p.  724. 
natiurlichen  luterkeit    s'  tjertossen    a 


c.  I.]  TJic  strange  Doctrines  discussed.  195 

After  the  service,  Hermann  left  me  to  go  and  see  a  sick 
friend.  I  mingled  with  the  crowd.  There  was  a  knot  of  people 
gathered  before  All-Saints,  discussing  what  they  had  heard.  A 
portly,  capon-lined  burgomaster  declared  he  had  first  been 
hungry,  then  sleepy,  and  that  was  all  he  knew.  He  had  verily, 
as  a  wag  presently  told  him,  obeyed  the  master,  and  lost  con- 
sciousness of  all  external  things.  Whereat  the  jolly  citizen  was 
so  tickled  that  he  took  the  joker  home  to  dine  with  him,  pro- 
mising mountains  of  pickled  pork,  a  whole  Black  Forest  of  sauer 
kraut,  and  boundless  beakers  of  hippocras. 

An  innocent  novice  from  the  country  (looking  fresh  as  a  new- 
caught  trout)  began  to  say,  '  Well,  it  doth  seem  to  me  that 
though  Doctor  Eckart  received  his  Doctorate  from  Rome,  at 
the  hands  of  our  Holy  Father,  though  he  hath  studied  and 
taught  at  Paris,  though  he  hath  been  Provincial  of  our  order  in 
Saxony,  and  Vicar-General  in  Bohemia — wliere  he  played  the 
r  it  with  the  mice,  I  can  tell  you— yet  that  some  things  he  said 
were ' 

'  Hold  your  tongue  for  a  jackass,'  quoth  a  senior  brother,  who 
liked  not,  methinks,  to  hear  a  whisper  against  the  orthodoxy 
of  the  order,  by  whomsoever  or  against  whomsoever  uttered. 

*  He  is  a  blasphemer,'  said  a  friar.  '  Good  people,  did  not 
you  hear  him  say  that  what  burned  in  hell  was  the  Nothing?" 
Then  nothing  burns  ;  ergo,  there  is  no  hell.' 

'  I  don't  think  he  believes  in  God  at  all,'  cried  one  : — '  Did 
he  not  say  something  about  caring  no  more  for  God  than  for  a 
stone  ?' 

'  Ay,  but,'  urged  the  friar,  '  no  hell,  and  so  no  purgatory- 
think  of  that.  Why,  he  has  swept  the  universe  as  clean  of  the 
devil  as  a  housewife's  platter  at  a  christening.' 

'^  He  was    cliargcd    with   denying      'Das  Nicht  in   der   lielle   brinne.t.'— 
hell  and  purgatory,  because  he  defined      Schmidt,  p.  722. 
future  punishment  as  deprivation, — 

03 


196         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.        [3.  vi. 

Some  one  in  the  crowd  shouted  out,  'That  fellow  cares  not 
what  becomes  of  God,  but  he  can't  give  up  his  devil.'  Whereon 
the  friar  grew  very  red  in  the  face,  as  we  all  laughed,  but 
could  not  bethink  him  of  any  answer,  and  went  capped  with 
the  name  of  Brother  Brimstone  ever  after. 

'  What  was  that  he  said,'  asked  a  slip-shod,  sottish-looking 
tailor,  '  about  doing  what  you  like,  and  that  is  what  God  likes  ?' 

'  Friends,'  cries  next  a  rainbow-coloured,  dandified  puppy,  a 
secretary  of  the  bishop's,  stroking  the  down  of  a  would-be 
moustache,  evidently  as  yet  only  in  a  state  of  Becoming 
(  Wcnrcn) — '  I  would  fain  have  moderately  kicked  him, 

'  My  friends'  (smiling  with  a  patronizing  blandness  at  the 
tailor),  '  you  are  right ;  the  public  jnorals  are  in  danger.  Evil 
men  and  seducers  wax  worse  and  worse.  But  the  Holy  Church 
will  protect  her  children.  We  have  heard  pestilent  heresy  this 
day.  To  hear  that  man  talk,  you  would  fancy  he  thought 
there  was  as  much  divinity  in  his  little  finger  as  in  the  whole 
body  of  the  Virgin  Mother  of  God.' 

Whereupon  up  starts  a  little  man  whom  I  knew  for  one  of 
the  brethren  of  the  Free  Spirit — takes  his  place  on  a  stone 
that  lay  in  the  mud  of  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  begins — 
*  Good  people,  did  you  not  hear  the  doctor  say  that  those  who 
cannot  understand  his  doctrine  are  to  hold  by  the  common 
faith  ?  Did  not  Saint  Peter  say  of  the  Epistles  of  the  blessed 
Saint  Paul  that  there  were  some  things  therein  hard  to  be  un- 
derstood, which  the  ignorant  would  wrest  to  their  own  destruc- 
tion ?  I'll  tell  you  the  ignorance  he  means  and  the  knowledge 
he  means.  Friend  Crispin  there,  whom  you  carried  home  drunk 
in  a  barrow  last  night,  and  Master  Secretary  here,  who  trans- 
gresses in  like  wise  and  worse  in  a  daintier  style,  and  hath, 
by  the  way,  as  much  perfumery  about  him  as  though  the  scent 
thereof,  rising  towards  heaven,  were  so  much  incense  for  the 
taking  away  of  his  many  sins — they  are  a  couple  of  St.   Paul's 


1.]  The  stnxngc  Doctr'uics  discussed.  197 


i.5;noraimises.  The  knowledge  St.  Paul  means  is  the  thoughtful 
love  of  doing  the  right  thing  for  the  love  of  Christ.  But  the 
Pope  himself  may  be  one  of  these  witless  ones,  if  the  love  of 
sin  be  stronger  in  him  than  the  love  of  holiness.  The  preach- 
ing of  all  the  twelve  Apostles  would  be  turned  to  mischief  and  ' 
to  licence  by  such  as  you,  you  feather-brained,  civet-tanned 
puppet  of  a  man,  you  adulterous,  quill-driving  hypocrite.' 

'  Seize  him,'  shouts  my  Secretary,  and  darted  forward ;  but 
an  apprentice  put  out  his  foot,  and  over  he  rolled  into  the  mire, 
grievously  ruffling  and  besmutching  all  his  gay  feathers,  while 
the  little  man  mingled  with  the  laughing  people,  and  made  his 
escape.  I  hope  he  is  out  of  Strasburg,  or  he  may  be  secluded 
in  a  darkness  and  a  solitude  anything  but  divine.  He  was  a 
trifife  free  of  tongue,  assuredly  ;  I  suppose  that  makes  a  part  of 
the  freedom  of  the  Spirit  v/ith  him.  He  had  right,  however, 
beyond  question. 

The  cciifusion  created  by  this  incident  had  scarcely  ceased, 
when  I  saw  advancing  towards  us  the  stately  form  of  Mastei 
Kckart  himself.  He  looked  with  a  calm  gravity  about  upon  uf, 
as  ho  paused  in  the  midst — seemed  to  understand  at  once  cl 
what  sort  our  talk  had  been,  and  appeared  about  to  speak. 
'I'here  was  a  cry  for  silence — '  Hear  the  Doctor !  hear  him  !' 
Whereon  he  spoke  as  follows  : — 

'  There  was  once  a  learned  man  who  longed  and  prayed  full 
eight  years  that  God  would  show  him  some  one  to  teach  him 
the  way  of  truth.  And  on  a  time,  as  he  was  in  a  great  long- 
ing, there  came  unto  him  a  voice  from  heaven,  and  said,  "  Go  to 
the  front  of  the  church,  there  wilt  thou  find  a  ninn  that  shall 
show  thee  the  way  to  blessedness." 

'  So  thither  he  went,  and  found  there  a  poor  man  whose  feet 
were  torn,  and  covered  with  dust  and  dirt,  and  all  his  apparel 
scarce  three  hellers  worth.  He  greeted  him,  saying,  "  God  give 
thee  good  morrow."  Thereat  made  he  aj:!s\ver,  ''  I  never  had  an 


198         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [b.  vi 


ill  morrow."  Again  said  he,  "  God  prosper  thee."  The  other 
answered.  "  Never  had  I  aught  but  prosperity." 

'  "  Heaven  save  thee,"  said  the  scholar,  "  how  answerest  thou 
me  so  ?" 

'  "  I  was  never  other  than  saved." 

'  "  Explain  to  me  this,  for  I  understand  not." 

*  "  Willingly,"  quoth  the  poor  man.  "  Thou  wishest  me  good 
morrow.  I  never  had  an  ill  morrow,  for,  am  I  an  hungered,  I 
praise  God ;  am  I  freezing,  doth  it  hail,  snow,  rain,  is  it  fair 
weather  or  foul,  I  praise  God ;  and  therefore  had  I  never  ill 
morrow.  Thou  didst  say,  God  prosper  thee.  I  have  been 
never  unprosperous,  for  I  know  how  to  live  with  God  ;  I  know 
that  what  he  doth  is  best,  and  what  God  giveth  or  ordaineth 
for  me,  be  it  pain  or  pleasure,  that  I  take  cheerfully  from  Him 
as  the  best  of  all,  and  so  I  had  never  adversity.  Thou  wishest 
God  to  bless  me.  .1  was  never  unblessed,  for  I  desire  to  be  only 
ill  the  will  of  God,  and  I  have  so  given  up  my  will  to  the  will 
of  God,  that  what  God  willeth  I  will.' 

'  "  But  if  God  were  to  cast  thee  into  hell,"  said  the  scholar, 
"  what  wouldst  thou  do  then  ?" 

'  "  Cast  me  into  hell  ?  His  goodness  holds  him  back  there- 
from. Yet  if  he  did,  I  should  have  two  arms  to  embrace  him 
withal.  One  arm  is  true  Humility,  and  therewith  am  I  one 
with  his  holy  humanity.  And  with  the  right  arm  of  Love, 
that  joineth  his  holy  Godhead,  1  would  embrace  him,  so  He 
must  come  with  me  into  hell  likewise.  And  even  so,  I  would 
sooner  be  in  hell,  and  have  God,  than  in  heaven,  and  not  have 
Him." 

'  Then  understood  this  Master  that  true  Abandonment,  with 
utter  Abasement,  was  the  nearest  way  to  Ciod. 

'  Moreover  the  Master  asked  :  "  From  whence  comest  thou  ?' 

'  "  From  God." 

'  "  Where  hast  thou  found  God  .-*" 


!•]  ^fystical  Rhynici.  199 


'  "  Where  I  abandoned  all  creatures.  I  am  a  king.  My 
kingdom  is  my  soul.  All  my  powers,  within  and  without,  do 
homage  to  my  soul.  This  kingdom  is  greater  than  any  king- 
dom on  the  earth." 

*  "  What  hath  brought  thee  to  this  perfection  ?" 

*  "  My  silence,  my  heavenward  thoughts,  my  union  with  God. 
For  I  could  rest  in  nothing  less  than  God.  Now  I  have  found 
God,  and  have  everlasting  rest  and  joy  in  Him."^" 

With  that  Master  Fxkart  ceased,  and  went  on  his  way  again, 
leaving  us  in  wonderment ;  and  I  watched  him,  as  far  as  I 
could  see  along  the  winding  street,  walking  on  under  the  over- 
hanging gables,  with  his  steady  step  and  abstract  air,  and  his 
silver  locks  fluttering  out  in  the  wind  from  under  his  doctor's 
hat.  When  I  looked  round,  I  found  myself  almost  alone.  He 
is  a  holy  man,  let  what  will  be  said  about  heresy. 

I  set  down  here  a  new  hymn  Hermann  sang  me — sweet, 
as  he  sang  it — with  a  ringing  repetition  that  chimes  right 
pleasantly,  and  makes  amends  for  some  lack  of  meaning  in 
the  words.*^ 

Oh  be  glad,  thou  Zion's  daughter. 

Joyous  news  to  thee  are  sent  ; 
Thou  shalt  sing  a  strain  of  sweetness. 

Sing  it  to  thy  heart's  content. 
Now  the  friend  of  God  thou  art, 
Therefore  shalt  thou  joy  at  heart. 
Therefore  know  no  sorrow-smart. 

Lo !  'tis  ju-ju-jubilation, 

Meditation  ; 

Ju-ju-ju-ju-jubilation, 

Contemplation  ; 

Juju-ju-jubilation  ; 

Ju-ju-ju-jubilation  ; 

Speculation  ; 

Ju-ju-ju-jubilaticn, 

Conciiiation ! 

20  The  narrative  here  put  into  the  it  is  Eckart's.  Martensen  gives  it,  p.  107. 

mouth  of  Eckart  is  found  in  an  ap-  -'  A  literal  translation  of  a  curious 

ppndix  to   Tauler's   Mediilhi  anim(s.  old  h ynin  in  Wackernagel's collec'.ion, 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  p.  896. 


2  00         German  Mysticism  in  tJie  14'''  Century.        [r.  vi. 

Meditntion,  that  is  good-y, 

When  a  man  on  God  will  miibe  ; 
Jubilaiion  woiketh  wonder, 

'Tis  the  harp  the  soul  doth  use. 
Speculation,  that  is  sheen. 
Contemplation  crowns,  I  ween, 
Concord  leads,  the  dance's  queen, 

Lo  !  ju-ju-ju- 

Conciliation  ! 

'  lis  jubilatioii 

At  the  sweets  of  contemplation  ! 

Have  been  haunted  by  this  ju-ju,  in-doors  and  out,  whatever 
I  have  been  doing  for  the  last  three  days,  and  I  hear  it  in 
every  stroke  upon  the  anvil. 

1320.  Second  7veek  in  October. — A  ride  over  to  Fegersheim 
about  Sir  Rudolf's  new  bascinet  with  the  beaked  ventaille.  As 
I  reached  the  castle  the  ladies  were  just  coming  out  for  hawk- 
ing, with  a  brave  company  of  knights  and  squires.  They  were 
fair  to  see,  with  their  copes  and  kirtles  blue  and  white,  and 
those  fanciful  new-fashioned  crowns  on  their  heads,  all  glitter- 
ing with  gold  and  jewels.  Sir  Rudolf  stayed  for  me  awhile 
and  then  followed  them. 

On  my  way  back,  rested  at  noon  at  a  little  hostelry,  where 
I  sat  before  the  door  at  a  table,  chatting  with  mine  host. 
There  ride  up  a  priest  and  monk  with  attendants.  Holy  Mary, 
what  dresses !  The  monk  with  bells  on  his  horse's  bridle,  his 
hood  fastened  with  a  great  golden  pin.  wrought  at  the  head  into 
a  true-love  knot,  his  hair  growing  long  so  as  to  hide  his  tonsure, 
his  shoes  em.broidered  and  cut  lattice-wise."*  There  was  the 
priest  with  broad  gold  girdle,  gown  of  green  and  red,  slashed 
after  the  newest  mode,  and  a  long  sword  and  dagger,  very  truly 
militant.  I  marvelled  at  the  variety  and  unction  of  the  oaths 
they  had  at  their  service.  The  advantage  of  a  theological 
training  "/as  very  manifest  therein. 

2-  C.  Schmidt  {'Johaii lies Tauler von      extravagant  display  in  dress  commoq 
Slrasbtirg,  p.  42)  gives  ^examples  of  the      among  the  clergy  at  that  time. 


c.  I.]  Mysticism  run  to  seed.  20 1 


Scarcely  were  these  worthies,  with  bag  and  baggage,  well  on 
their  way  again  when  I  espied,  walking  towards  the  inn,  a 
giant  of  a  man — some  three  inches  higher  than  I  am  (a  sight  I 
have  not  often  seen),  miserably  attired,  dusty  and  travel-worn. 
When  he  came  to  where  I  was  he  threw  down  his  staff  and 
bundle,  cast  his  huge  limbs  along  the  bench,  gave  a  careless, 
surly  glance  at  me,  and,  throwing  back  his  shaggy  head  of 
black  hair,  seemed  about  to  sleep.  Having  pity  on  his 
weariness  I  said,  '  Art  thirsty,  friend  ?  the  sun  hath  power  to- 
day.' Thereupon  he  partly  raised  himself,  looked  fixedly  at 
me,  and  then  drank  off  the  tankard  I  pushed  towards  him, 
grunting  out  a  something  which  methought  was  meant  for 
thanks.  Being  now  curious,  I  asked  him  straight,  '  Where  he 
came  from  ?' 

Jfe.  I  never  came  from  anywhere. 

/.  What  are  you  ? 

Jfc.  I  am  not. 

/.  What  will  you  ? 

He.  I  will  not. 

/.  This  is  passing  strange.     Tell  me  your  name. 

Mc.  Men  call  me  the  Nameless  Wild. 

/.  Not  far  off  the  mark  either  ;  you  talk  wildly  enough. 
Where  do  you  come  from  ?  whither  are  you  bound  ? 

He.  I  dwell  in  absolute  Freedom. 

/.  What  is  that  ? 

He.  When  a  man  lives  as  he  list,  without  distinction 
(Otherness,  Anderheii),  without  before  or  after.  The  man  who 
hath  in  his  Eternal  Nothing  become  nothing  knows  nought  of 
distinctions. 

/  But  to  violate  distinction  is  to  violate  order,  and  to  break 
that  is  to  be  a  slave.  'I'hat  is  not  the  freedom  indeed,  which 
the  truth  gives.  He  that  committeth  sin  is  the  servant  of  sin. 
No  man  can  be  so  utterly  self-annihilated  and  lost  in  God, — 


202         German  Mysticism  in  the  14!    Century.        [«.  vi. 

can  be  such  a  very  nothing  that  there  remains  no  remnant  of 
tlie  original  dift'erencc  between  creature  and  Creator.  My  soul 
and  body  are  one,  are  not  separate  ;  but  they  are  distinct.  So 
is  it  with  the  soul  united  to  God.  Mark  the  difference,  friend, 
I  prithee,  between  separation  and  distinction  {Geschicdenhcit 
und  Untcrschiedeiiheit) . 

He.  The  teacher  saith  that  the  saintly  man  is  God's  son, 
and  what  Christ  doth,  that  doth  he. 

/.  He  saith  that  such  man  foUoweth  Christ  in  righteousness. 
But  our  personality  must  ever  abide.  Christ  is  son  of  God  by 
nature,  we  by  grace.  Your  pride  blinds  you.  You  are  en- 
lightened with  a  false  light,  coming  whence  I  know  not.  You 
try  and  '  break  through'  to  the  Oneness,  and  you  break  through 
reason  and  reverence. 

He  replied  by  telling  me  that  I  was  in  thick  darkness,  and 
the  boy  coming  with  my  horse,  I  left  him."* 

As  I  rode  homeward  I  thought  on  the  contrast  I  had  seen. 
This  man  who  came  last  is  the  natural  consequent  on  the  two 
who  preceded  him.  So  doth  a  hypocritical,  ghostly  tyranny 
produce  lawlessness.  I  have  seen  the  Priest  and  the  Levite, 
and  methinks  one  of  the  thieves, — where  is  our  good  Samaritan  ? 
I  know  not  which  extreme  is  the  worst.     One  is  selfish  abso- 


-•'  The  substance  of   this  dialogue  to  have  picked  up  divinity  enough  in 

will  be  found  in  the  works  of  Heinrich  his  sermon-hearing  to  be  able  to  reason 

Suso  (ed.  Melchior  Diepenbrock,  Re-  with   him  just   as   Suso   does    in    his 

gensburg,  1837),  Book  iii.  chap,  vii.pp.  book. 

310-14.  Suso  represents  himself  as  The  wandering  devotees,  who  at  this 
holding  such  a  conversation  with  '  ein  time  abounded  throughout  the  whole 
vernunftiges  Bilde,  das  war  subtil  an  region  between  the  Netherlands  and 
seinen  Worten  und  war  aber  ungeiibt  Switzerland,  approximated,  some  of 
an  seinen  Werken  und  war  ausbriichig  them,  to  Eckart's  portraiture  of  a  re- 
in (lorirender  Reichheit,' as  he  sat  lost  ligious  teacher,  others  to  Suso's  ideal 
in  meditation  on  a  summer's  day.  of  the  Nameless  Wild.  In  some  cases 
Atherton  has  ventured  to  clothe  this  the  enthusiasm  of  the  same  man  may 
ideal  of  the  enthusiast  of  those  times  have  approached  now  the  nobler  and 
in  more  than  a  couple  of  yards  of  now  the  baser  type, 
llcshand  blood,  and  supposed  Arnsteju 


c.  I.]         Siiftsh  absoluteness  absolute  SelfisJmess.         203 

luteness,  tlie  otlier  absolute  selfishness.  Oh,  for  men  among 
us  who  shall  battle  with  each  in  the  strength  of  a  truth  above 
them  both  !     Poor  Alsace  ! 

Here  Athertnn   laid  aside  his  manuscript,  an<T  convcrhiuicn 
commenced. 


CHAPTER  II. 

For  as  though  there  were  metempsychosis,  and  the  soul  of  one  man  paicsed 
into  another  ;  opinions  do  find,  afier  certain  revolutions,  men  and  m.nds  like 
those  that  first  begat  1  hem. — SiK  TuOMAS  Browne. 

^1  7ILL0UGHBY.  What  struck  me  most  as  novel  in  the 
^  *  mysticism  of  this  strange  Master  Eckart  was  the  stress 
he  laid  on  our  own  consciousness  of  being  the  sons  of  God. 
Neither  the  ecclesiastical  nor  the  scholastic  gradations  and 
preparatives  for  mysticism,  so  important  with  his  predecessors, 
seem  of  much  moment  with  him  in  comparison  with  the  attain- 
ment,/rr  saltum,  as  it  were,  of  this  blessed  certainty.  Perhaps 
the  secret  of  his  reaction  against  the  orthodoxy  of  his  day  lay 
here.  He  craves  a  firm  resting-place  for  his  soul.  The  Church 
cannot  satisfy  the  want.  He  will  supply  it  for  himself,  and,  to 
do  so,  builds  together  into  a  sort  of  system  certain  current 
notions  that  suit  his  purpose,  some  new  and  others  old,  some 
in  tolerable  harmony  with  Christianity,  others  more  hostile  to 
it  than  he  was  altogether  aware.  These  pantheistic  metaphysics 
may  have  seemed  to  him  his  resource  and  justification — may 
have  been  the  product  of  the  brain  labouring  to  assure  the 
heart. 

Atherton.  a  very  plausible  conjecture.  Amalric  of  Bena. 
who  had  been  famous  as  a  teacher  in  Paris  nearly  a  hundred 
years  before  Eckart  went  to  study  there,  mamtained  that  a 
personal  conviction  of  our  union  to  Christ  was  necessary  to  sal- 
vation.    He  was  condemned  for  the  doctrine,  but  it  survived. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Thank  you.     That  fact  supports  me.     Might 


2.]  Eckart  a}id  Hcgcl.  20^ 


not  Eckart  have  desired  to  assert  for  our  inward  religious  life 
a  worthier  and  more  independent  place,  as  opposed  to  the 
despotic  externalism  of  the  time — to  make  onr  access  to  Christ 
more  immediate,  and  less  subject  to  the  precarious  mercies  of 
the  ChiuTh  ? 

Atherton.  a  grand  aim,  if  so  :  but  to  reach  it  he  unfortu- 
nately absorbs  the  objective  in  the  subjective  element  of  religion 
— rebounds  from  servility  to  arrogance,  and  makes  humanity  a 
manifestation  of  the  Divine  Essence. 

GowER.  In  order  to  understand  his  position,  the  question  to 
be  first  asked  appears  to  me  to  be  this.  If  Pxkart  goes  to  the 
Church,  and  says,  '  How  can  I  be  assured  tliat  I  am  in  a  state 
of  salvation  ?'  what  answer  will  the  Holy  Mother  give  him  ? 
Can  you  tell  me,  Atherton  ? 

Atherton.  She  confounds  justification  and  sanctification 
together,  you  will  remember.  So  she  will  answer,  '  My  son,  as 
a  Christian  of  the  ordinary  sort,  you  cannot  have  any  such 
certainty — indeed,  you  are  much  better  without  it.  You  may 
conjecture  that  you  are  reconciled  to  God  by  looking  inward  on 
your  feelings,  by  assuring  yourself  that  at  least  you  are  not 
living  in  any  mortal  sin.  If,  indeed,  you  were  appointed  to  do 
some  great  things  for  my  glory,  you  might  find  yourself  among 
the  happy  few  who  are  made  certain  of  their  state  of  grace  by  a 
special  and  extra  revelation,  to  hearten  them  for  their  achieve- 
ments.' 

Cower.  Shameful  1  'J'he  Church  then  admits  the  high, 
invigorating  influence  of  such  certainty,  but  denies  it  to  those 
who,  amid  secular  care  and  toil,  require  it  most. 

Wii.LOUGHBV.  While  discussing  P'ckart,  we  have  lighted  on 
a  doctrine  which  must  have  produced  more  mysticism  than 
almost  any  other  you  can  name.  On  receiving  such  reply, 
how  many  ardent  natures  will  strain  after  visions  and  miracu- 
lous manifestations,  wrestling  for  some  token  of  their  safety  ! 


2o6         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'''''  Century.        [n.  vi. 


GowER.  And  how  many  will  be  the  prey  of  morbid  intro- 
spections, now  catching  the  exultant  thrill  of  confidence,  and 
presently  thrown  headlong  into  some  despairing  abyss. 

Atherton.  As  for  the  mass  of  the  people,  they  will  be 
enslaved  for  ever  by  such  teaching,  trying  to  assure  themselves 
by  plenty  of  sacraments,  believing  these  the  causes  of  grace, 
and  hanging  for  their  spiritual  all  on  the  dispensers  thereof. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Then,  to  apply  the  result  of  your  question, 
Gower,  to  Eckart, — as  he  has  in  him  nothing  servile,  and 
nothing  visionary,  he  resolves  to  grasp  certainty  with  his  own 
hand— wraps  about  him  relics  of  the  old  Greek  pallium,  and 
retires  to  his  extreme  of  majestic  isolation. 

Gower.  Pity  that  he  could  not  find  the  scriptural  Via 
Media — that  common  truth  which,  while  it  meets  the  deepest 
wants  of  the  individual,  yet  links  him  in  wholesome  fellowship 
with  others — that  pure  outer  light  which  nurtures  and  directs 
the  inner. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  No  easy  way  to  find  in  days  when  Plato 
was  installed  high  priest,  and  the  whole  biblical  region  a 
jungle  of  luxuriant  allegoric  conceits  or  thorny  scholastic 
formulas. 

Gower.  This  daring  Eckart  reminds  me  of  that  heroic  leader 
in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Bondiica.  I  tliink  I  hear  him  cry 
with  Caratach, 

Cease  your  fretful  prayers, 
Your  wbinings,  and  your  lame  petitions  ; 
The  gods  love  courage  armed  with  confidence, 
And  prayers  fit  to  pull  them  down  :  weak  tears 
And  troubled  liearts,  the  dull  twins  of  cold  spirits, 
They  sit  and  smile  at.     Hear  how  I  salute  'em. 

Lowestoffe.  Did  you  not  say  yesterday,  Atherton,  that 
Eckart's  system  had  received  high  praise  from  Hegel? 

Atherton.  Oh  yes,  he  calls  it  '  a  genuine  and  profound 
philosophy.'  Indeed  the  points  of  resemblance  are  verystriking , 


c.  2.]  Eckart  and  Heget.  207 

and,  setting  aside  for  the  moment  some  redeeming  expressions 
and  the  more  religious  spirit  of  the  man,  Eckart's  theosophy  is 
a  remarkable  anticipation  of  modern  German  idealism.  That 
abstract  ground  of  Godhead  Eckart  talks  about,  answers  exactly 
to  Hegel's  Logische  Idee.  The  Trinity  of  process,  the  incar- 
nation ever  renewing  itself  in  men,  the  resolution  of  redemption 
almost  to  a  divine  self-development,  constitute  strong  features 
of  family  likeness  between  the  Dominican  and  both  Hegel  and 
Fichte.^ 

GowER.  One  may  fancy  that  while  Hegel  was  teaching  at 
Heidelberg  it  must  have  fared  with  poor  Eckart  as  with  the 
dead  huntsman  in  the  Danish  ballad,  while  a  usurper  was 
hunting  with  his  hounds  over  his  patrimony,— 

With  my  dogs  so  good, 
He  hunfeth  the  wild  deer  in  the  weed  ; 
And  with  every  deer  he  slays  on  the  mould, 
He  wakens  me  up  in  the  grave  so  cold. 

Atherton.  Nay,  if  we  come  to  fancying,  let  us  call  in 
Pythagoras  at  once,  and  say  that  the  soul  of  Eckart  transmi- 
grated into  Hegel. 

GowER.  With  all  my  heart.  The  Portuguese  have  a  super- 
stition according  to  which  the  soul  of  a  man  who  has  died, 
leaving  some  duty  unfulfilled  or  promised  work  unfinished,  is 
frequently  known  to  enter  into  another  person,  and  dislodging 
for  a  time  the  rightful  soul-occupant,  impel  him  unconsciously 
to  complete  what  was  lacking.  On  a  dreamy  summer  day  like 
this,  we  can  imagine  Hegel  in  like  manner  possessed  by  Eckart 
in  order  to  systematize  his  half-developed  ideas. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  It  is  certainly  very  curious  to  mark  the  path- 
way  of  these    pantheistic    notions    through   successive    ages. 
Seriously,  I  did  not   know  till    lately  how  venerably  antique 
were  the  discoveries  of  absolute  idealism. 
^  See  Note,  p.  212. 


2o8         German  Mysticism  in  the  14.'^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

LowESTOFFE.  I  confess  that  the  being  one  in  oneness,  the 
nothing,  the  soul  beyond  the  soul,  the  participation  in  the  all- 
moving  Immobility  of  which  Eckart  speaks,  are  to  me  utterly 
unintelligible. 

GowER.  Do  not  trouble  yourself.  No  one  will  ever  be  able 
to  get  beyond  the  words  themselves,  any  more  than  Bardolph 
could  with  the  phrase  which  so  tickled  the  ear  of  Justice 
Shallow.  '  Accommodated  ;  that  is,  when  a  man  is,  as  they 
say,  accommodated  :  or,  when  a  man  is, — being, — whereby, — 
he  maybe  thought  to  be  accommodated;  which  is  an  excellent 
thing.' 

Atherton.  Yet,  to  do  Eckart  justice,  he  has  his  qualifica- 
tions and  his  distinctions  in  virtue  of  which  he  imagines  him- 
self still  within  the  pale  of  orthodoxy,  and  he  strongly  repudiates 
the  Antinomian  consequences  to  which  his  doctrines  were  repre- 
sented as  tending. 

GowER.  Ay,  it  is  just  in  this  way  that  the  mischief  is  done. 
These  distinctions  many  a  follower  of  his  could  not  or  would  not 
understand,  and  so  his  high  philosophy  produced  in  practice  far 
oftener  such  men  as  the  Nameless  Wild  than  characters  resem- 
bling the  more  pure  and  lofty  ideal  he  drew  himself  in  his  dis- 
course to  the  good  people  of  Strasburg.  These  philosophical 
edge-tools  are  full  perilous.  Modern  Germany  is  replete  with 
examples  of  that  fatal  facility  in  the  common  mind  for  a  prac- 
tical application  of  philosophic  paradox  which  our  friend 
Adolf  lamented  at  Fegersheim.  When  a  philosophy  which 
weakens  the  embankments  that  keep  licence  out  has  once  been 
popularized,  the  philosopher  cannot  stop  the  inundation  by 
shouting  from  his  study-window.  De  Wette  himself  at  last 
became  aware  of  this,  and  regretted  it  in  vain.  Such  speculation 
resembles  the  magic  sword  of  Sir  Elidure — its  mysterious 
virtue  sometimes  filled  even  its  owner  with  a  furor  that  hurried 
him  to  an   indiscriminate  slaughter,  but  Avielded  by  any  other 


c.  2.]  Mysticism  fcruicnis  among  tJic  People.  209 

h-ind  its  thirst  could  be  satisfied  only  with  the  blood  of  every 
one  around,  and  at  last  with  the  life  of  huii  who  held  it. 

LowESTOFFE.  Still  there  is  far  more  excuse  for  Eckart  than 
for  our  nineteenth  century  pantheists.  Even  the  desperation 
of  some  of  those  poor  ignorant  creatures,  who  exaggerated 
Eckari's  paradoxes  till  they  grew  a  plea  for  utter  lawlessness, 
is  not  so  unnatural,  however  lamentable.  'Who  can  wonder 
that  some  should  have  overwrought  the  doctrine  of  Christ  i?i  us 
and  neglected  that  of  Christ  for  us,  when  the  opus  operatum 
was  in  its  glory,  ghostly  comfort  bought  and  sold,  and  Christ 
our  sacrifice  pageanted  about  in  the  mass,  as  Milton  says, — a 
fearful  idol  ?  Or  that  the  untaught  many,  catching  the  first 
thought  of  spiritual  freedom  from  some  mystic,  should  have 
been  intoxicated  instantly.  The  laity,  forbidden  so  long  to  be 
Christians  on  their  own  account,  rise  up  here  and  there,  crying, 
'  We  will  be  not  Christians  merely,  but  so  many  Christs.'  They 
have  been  denied  what  is  due  to  man,  they  will  dreadfully 
indemnify  themselves  by  seizing  what  is  due  to  God.  Has  not 
the  letter  been  slaying  them  by  inches  all  their  days  ?  The 
spirit  shall  give  them  life  ! 

GowER.  Like  the  peasant  in  the  apologue  ; — religion  has 
been  so  long  doled  out  to  them  in  a  few  pitiful  drops  of  holy 
water,  till  in  their  impatience  they  must  have  a  whole  Ganges- 
flood  poured  into  their  grounds,  obliterating,  with  a  ven- 
geance, '  all  distinctions,'  and  drowning  every  logical  and 
social  landmark  under  the  cold  grey  level— the  blank  neutral- 
tint  of  a  stoical  indifference  which  annihilates  all  order  and 
all  law. 

Atherton.  By  a  strange  contradiction,  Eckart  employs 
Revelation  at  one  moment  only  to  escape  it  the  next — and  uses 
its  beacon-lights  to  steer  from.,  not  to  the  haven.  He  pays 
homage  to  its  authority,  he  consults  its  record,  but  presently 
leaves  it  far  behind  to  lose  himself  in  the  unrevealed  Godhead 

VOL.  I.  p 


2  I  o         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4     Century.        [b.  \\ 


—floats  away  on  his  '  sail-broad  vans'  of  speculation  through 
the  vast  vacuity  in  search  of 


a  dark 


Illimitable  ocean,  witliout  bound, 

Without  dimension,  where  length,  breadth,  and  height, 

And  time  and  place  are  lost. 

When  there,  he  finds  his  cloudy  seat  soon  fail  him  ;  he  returns 
once  more  to  the  realities  of  revelation,  only  to  forsake  this 
lower  ground  again  when  he  has  renewed  his  strength.  This 
oscillation  betrays  a  fatal  contradiction.  To  shut  behind  us 
the  gate  on  this  inferior  world  is  not  necessarily  to  open  the 
everlasting  doors  of  the  upper  one. 

GowER.  I  very  much  admire  the  absolute  resignation  of 
that  devout  mendicant  described  by  Eckart.  He  is  a  Quietist 
of  the  very  best  sort — his  life  a  'Thy  will  be  done.'  He  is  a 
Fenelon  in  rags. 

Atherton.  After  all,  make  what  allowance  we  will, — giving 
Eckart  all  the  benefit  due  from  the  fact  that  his  life  was  pure, 
that  he  stood  in  no  avowed  antagonism  to  Christian  doctrine  or 
institute,  that  devout  men  like  Tauler  and  Suso  valued  his 
teaching  so  highly, — still,  he  stands  confessed  a  pantheist ;  no 
charity  can  explain  that  away. 

GowER.  I  am  afraid  not.  What  else  can  we  call  him  when 
he  identifies  himself  and  all  Christian  men  with  the  Son,  as  we 
have  heard,  makes  himself  essential  to  God,  will  share  with  him 
in  the  evolution  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and,  forbidding  you  to 
regard  yourself  as  a  something  distinct  from  God,  exhorts  you 
(if  you  would  be  a  justified  person  and  child  of  God  indeed)  to 
merge  the  ground  of  your  own  nature  in  the  divine,  so  that 
your  knowledge  of  God  and  his  of  you  are  the  same  thing, — • 
i.e.,  you  and  He  one  and  the  same  ?  But  can  you  conjecture, 
Atherton,  by  what  process  he  arrived  at  such  a  pass  ? 

Atherton.  Perhaps  in  this  way : — John  Scotus  Erigena 
(with  whose  writings  Eckart  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  make 


c.  2]  PantJtcisin — old  and  nciv.  2  i  i 


acquaintance  at  Paris)  asserts  the  identity  of  Being  and  Willing, 
of  the  Vc//e  and  the  Esse  in  God;  also  the  identity  of  Being 
and  Knowing.  Applying  this  latter  proposition  to  the  relation- 
ship between  God  and  man,  he  comes  logically  enough  to  this 
conclusion, — 'Man,  essentially  considered,  maybe  defined  as 
God's  knowledge  of  him  ;  that  is,  man  reduced  to  his  ultimate 
— his  ground,  or  simple  subsistence — is  a  divine  Thought. 
But,  on  the  same  principle,  the  thoughts  of  God  are,  of  course, 
God.  Hence  Eckart's  doctrine — the  ground  of  your  being  lies 
in  God.  Reduce  yourself  to  that  simplicity,  that  root,  and 
you  are  in  God.  There  is  no  longer  any  distinction  between 
your  spirit  and  the  divine, — you  have  escaped  personality  and 
finite  limitation.  Your  particular,  creature  self,  as  a  something 
separate  and  dependent  on  God,  is  gone.  So  also,  obviously, 
your  creaturely  will.  Henceforth,  therefore,  what  seems  an 
inclination  of  yours  is  in  fact  the  divine  good  pleasure.  You 
are  free  from  law.  You  are  above  means.  The  very  will  to  do 
the  will  of  God  is  resolved  into  that  will  itself.  This  is  the 
Apathy,  the  Negation,  the  Poverty,  he  commends. 

With  Eckart  personally  this  self-reduction  and  deification  is 
connected  with  a  rigorous  asceticism  and  exemplary  moral 
excellence.  Yet  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  may  be  a  merely 
intellectual  process,  consisting  in  a  man's  thinking  that  he  is 
thinking  himself  away  from  his  personality.  He  declares  the 
appearance  of  the  Son  necessary  to  enable  us  to  realize  our 
sonship  ;  and  yet  his  language  implies  that  this  realization  is 
the  perpetual  incarnation  of  that  Son — does,  as  it  were,  con- 
stitute him.  Christians  are  accordingly  not  less  the  sons  of 
God  by  grace  than  is  Christ  by  nature.  Believe  yourself 
divine,  and  the  Son  is  brought  forth  in  you.  The  Saviour 
and  the  saved  are  dissolved  together  in  the  blank  absolute 
Substance. 

WiLLOUGHEY.  So  then,  Eckart  would  say, — '  To  realize  him- 

p  2 


2  I  2         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'''''  Century.        [d.  vi. 

self,  God  must  have  Christians  ;'  and  Hegel, — 'To  realize  him 
self.  He  must  have  philosophers.' 

Atherton.  Miserable  inversion  !  This  result  of  Eckart's 
speculation  was  expressed  with  the  most  impious  enormity  by 
Angelus  Silesius,  in  the  seventeenth  century.  In  virtue  of  the 
necessity  God  is  under  (according  to  this  theory)  of  communi- 
cating himself,  ban  gre,  mal  gre,  to  whomsoever  will  refine 
J'jimself  down  to  his  *  Noihifig,'  he  reduces  the  Almighty  to 
dependence,  and  changes  places  with  Him  upon  the  eternal 
throne  on  the  strength  of  his  self-transcending  humility ! 


Note  to  page  207. 

Both  Hegel  and  Eckart  regard  T^^'^o-/;/  as  the  point  of  union  between  the 
human  nature  and  tlie  divine.  But  the  former  would  pronounce  both  God  and 
man  imrevealed,  i.e.,  unconscious  of  themselves,  till  Thought  has  been 
developed  by  some  Method  into  a  philosophic  System.  Mysticism  brings 
Eckart  nearer  to  Schelling  on  this  matter  than  to  the  dry  schoolman  Hegel. 
The  charge  whicli  Hegel  brings  against  the  philosophy  of  Schelling  he  might 
have  applied,  with  a  little  alteration,  to  that  of  Eckart.  Hegel  says,  'When 
this  knowledge  which  claims  to  be  essential  and  ignores  apprehension  (is 
begrifflose),  professes  to  have  sunk  the  peculiarity  of  Self  in  the  Essence,  and  so 
to  give  forth  the  utterance  of  a  hallowed  and  unerring  philosophy,*  men  quite 
overlook  the  fact  that  this  so-called  wisdom,  instead  of  being  yielded  up  to  the 
influence  of  Divinity  by  its  contempt  of  all  proportion  and  definiteness,  does 
really  nothing  but  give  full  play  to  accident  and  to  caprice.  Such  men  imagine 
that  by  surrendering  themselves  to  the  unregulated  ferment  of  the  Substance 
(Substanz),  by  throwing  a  veil  over  consciousness,  and  abandoning  the  under- 
standing, they  become  those  favourites  of  Deity  to  whom  he  gives  wisdom  in 
sleep  ;  verily,  nothing  was  ever  produced  by  such  a  process  better  than  mere 
Ax&'Am^.'—Voj-rede  ziir  Ph(E7iovie)iologie,  p.  6. 

These  are  true  and  weighty  words :  unfortunately  Hegel's  remedy  proves 
worse  than  the  disease. 

We  seem  to  hear  Eckart  speak  when  Fichte  exclaims,  '  Raise  thyself  to  the 
height  of  religion,  and  all  veils  are  removed  ;  the  world  and  its  dead  principle 
passes  away  from  thee,  and  the  very  Godhead  enters  thee  anew  in  its  first  and 
original  form,  as  Life,  as  thine  own  life  which  thou  shall  and  oughtest  to  live.'— 
A/iwehting  sii»t  sel.  Leben,  p.  470. 

And  again,  '  Religion  consists  in  the  inward  consciousness  that  God  actually 
lives  and  acts  in  us,  and  fulfils  his  work.' — Ibid.  p.  473. 

But  Eckart  would  not  liave  affirmed  with  Fichte  (a  few  pages  farther  on)  tliat, 
were  Christ  to  return  to  the  world,  he  would  be  indifferent  to  the  recognition  or 
the  denial  of  his  work  as  a  Savioar,  provided  a  man  were  only  united  to  God 
somehow  ! 

*  Eckart  does  not  make  use  of  his  laps?      is  simply  his  religious  nliiinatutn, 
into  the  Essence  to  philosophise  withal ;    it 


CHAPTER  III. 

With  tliat  about  I  tourned  iny  hedde, 
And  sawe  anone  the  fifth  rout 
That  to  this  lady  gan  lout. 
And  doune  on  knees,  anone,  to  fall, 
And  to  her  the  besoughten  all, 
To  hiden  hir  good  workes  eke, 
And  said,  they  yeve  not  a  lake 
For  no  fame,  ne  soch  renoun, 
For  they  for  contemplacioun. 
And  Goddes  love  had  it  wrought, 
Ne  of  fame  would  they  nought. 

Chaucer  :  The  House  of  Fame. 

/^N  the  next  occasion  when  our  little  Summerford  circle 
was  ready  to  hear  some  more  of  Arnstein's  Chronicle, 
they  were  informed  by  Atherton  that  four  years  of  the  manu- 
script were  missing, — that  such  intervals  were  only  too  fre- 
quent,— in  fact,  the  document  was  little  more  than  a  collection 
of  fragments. 

'  The  next  entry  I  find,'  said  he,  'is  in  1324,  and  the  good 
armourer,  in  much  excitement,  begins  with  an  exclamation. 

1324.  July.  St.  Kylian's  Day. — What  a  day  this  has  been! 
Strasburg,  and  all  the  states  which  adhere  to  Louis,  are  placed 
under  the  bann.  The  bells  were  ringing  merrily  at  early  morn- 
ing ;  now,  the  Interdict  is  proclaimed,  and  every  tongue  of  them 
is  silent.  As  the  news  flew  round,  every  workman  quitted  his 
work.  The  busy  stalls  set  out  on  either  side  of  the  streets  were 
left  empty.  The  tools  and  the  wares  lay  unlooked  at  and  un- 
touched. The  bishop  and  the  clergy  of  his  party,  and  most  of 
the  Dominicans,  keep  out  of  sight.       My  men  are  furious.     I 


2  14         German  Mysticism  in  the  14''''  Century.        [n.  vj. 


have  been  all  day  from  house  to  house,  and  group  to  group, 
telling  the  people  to  keep  a  good  heart.  We  shall  have  a  sad 
time  of  it,  I  see.  It  is  so  hard  for  the  poor  creatures  to  shake 
off  a  fear  in  which  they  have  been  cradled. 

The  clergy  and  the  monks  will  pour  out  of  Strasburg,  as  out 
of  a  Sodom,  in  shoals.  A  mere  handful  Avill  stay  behind, — 
not  nearly  enough  to  christen  those  who  will  be  born  and  to 
shrive  those  Avho  will  die  in  this  populous  city.  They  may  name 
their  price  :  the  greedy  of  gain  may  make  their  fortunes.  The 
miserable  poor  will  die,  numbers  of  them,  in  horror,  unable  to 
purchase  absolution.  And  then,  out  of  the  few  priests  Avho  do 
remain,  scarcely  any  will  have  the  courage  to  disobey  the  pope, 
and,  despite  the  Interdict,  say  mass. 

Tis  an  anxious  time  for  either  party.  Louis  has  most  of  the 
states  on  his  side,  and  the  common  voice,  in  all  the  towns  of  the 
Rhineland — (in  the  princely  Cologne  most  of  all),  is,  I  hear, 
loud  in  his  favour.  The  Minorites  will  be  with  him,  and  all  of 
that  sort  among  the  friars,  who  have  little  favour  to  lose  with 
his  Holiness.  But  France  is  with  the  Pope  against  him  ;  Duke 
Leopold  is  a  doughty  adversary ;  John  of  Bohemia  restless  and 
fickle,  and  no  doubt  the  Pope  will  set  on  the  Polacks  and  pagan 
Lithuanians  to  waste  most  horribly  all  the  north  and  eastern 
frontiers.  Since  the  victory  of  Miihldorf,  Frederick  has  lain  in 
prison.  That  battle  is  the  grievance.  The  enemies  of  the 
Emperor  are  more  full  of  rancour  than  ever.  Yet,  with  all  the 
mischief  it  may  bring  in  the  present,  what  lover  of  the  Father- 
land can  sorrow  therefor  ?  Gallant  little  Schweppermann,  with 
his  lame  foot  and  grey  hair,  and  his  glorious  two  eggs,  long 
may  he  live  to  do  other  such  deeds  !^    Louis  holds  a  high  spirit 

1  Louis  was   indebted   for  this  im-  emperor  distributed  among  his  officers, 

portant  victory  to  the  skill  of  Schwep-  saying,    '  To  each  of  you  one  egg — to 

permann.      After  the   battle  the  sole  our  gallant    Schweppermann    two.' — 

supply  of  the  imperial  table  was  found  Menzel. 
to  consist  of  a  basket  of  eggs,  which  the 


c.  3.1  Louis  and  Frederick,  2  \  5 

at  present,  and  goes  about  under  the  bann  with  a  brave  lieart. 
But  it  is  only  the  outset  as  yet.  I  much  fear  me  he  may  lack 
the  staunchness  to  go  through  as  he  has  begun.  There  is  store 
of  thunder  behind  at  Avignon.  Methinks  he  hankers,  like 
a  child,  mainly  after  the  lance  and  sword  and  crown  of 
Charlemagne,  to  dress  him  out  perfectly  withal  King  of  the 
Romans,  and  seeth  not  the  full  bearing  of  the  very  war  he 
wages. 

We  shall  not  be  idle.  It  is  already  proposed  to  send  off 
troops  to  the  aid  of  Louis.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  go  myself; 
but  home  can  ill  spare  me  now,  and  I  render  the  Emperor 
more  service  by  such  little  influence  as  I  have  in  Strasburg. 
To-morrow,  to  consult  about  the  leagues  to  be  formed  with 
neighbouring  towns  and  with  the  Swiss  burghers,  to  uphold  the 
good  cause  together. 

****** 

1326.  March.  St.  Gregory's  Day. — Duke  Leopold  died 
here  yesterday,  at  the  Ochsenstein  Palace."  After  ravaging  the 
suburbs  of  Spires,  he  came  hither  in  a  raging  fever  to  breathe 
his  last.  The  bishop  told  him  he  must  pardon  the  Landgrave 
of  Lower  Alsace  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  They  say  he 
struggled  long  and  wrathfuUy  against  the  condition,  till,  finding 
the  bishop  firm  in  refusing  absolution  on  other  terms,  he  gave 
way.  But,  just  as  he  was  about  to  receive  the  host,  a  fit  ol 
vomiting  came  on,  wherein  he  presently  expired,  without  the 
sacrament  after  all. 

Frederick  has  been  now  at  liberty  some  months.  Louis 
visited  him  in  his  prison.  To  think  of  their  having  been 
together  all  their  boyhood,  and  loving  each  other  so,  to  meet 
thus  !  Frederick  the  Handsome,  haggard  with  a  three  years' 
imprisonment — his  beard  down  to  his  waist ;  and  Louis,  suc- 
cessful and  miserable.     They  say  Frederick  cut  off  his  beard  at 

"^  See  Laguille,  Hisfoire  d' Alsace,  liv.  xxiii.  p.  271. 


2 1 6         Geruian  Mysticism  in  the  1 4''''  Century.        [n.  vi 

first,  and  sent  it,  by  way  of  memorial,  to  John  of  Bohemia,  and 
that  when  he  went  back  to  his  castle  he  found  his  young  wife 
had  wept  herself  blind  during  his  captivity.  He  swore  on  the 
holy  wafer  to  renounce  his  claim  to  the  empire.  The  Pope 
released  him  from  his  oath  soon  after,  but  he  keeps  his  word 
like  knight,  not  like  priest,  and  holds  to  it  yet.  It  is  whis- 
pered that  they  have  agreed  to  share  the  throne.  But  that  can 
never  be  brought  to  pass. 

Heard  to-day,  by  a  merchant,  of  Hermann.'  He  is  travelling 
through  Spain.  I  miss  him  much.  Before  he  left  Strasburg 
he  was  full  of  Eckart's  doctrine,  out  of  all  measure  admiring  the 
wonderful  man,  and  hoarding  every  word  that  dropped  from  his 
lips.  Eckart  is  now  sick  at  Cologne,  among  his  sorrowing 
disciples.  Grieved  to  hear  that  the  leeches  say  he  hath  not 
long  to  live. 

A  long  conversation  with  Henry  of  Nordlingen.''  He  has 
journeyed  hither,  cast  down  and  needy,  to  ask  counsel  of  Tauler. 
Verily  he  needs  counsel,  but  hath  not  strength  of  mind  to  take 
it  when  given.  Tauler  says  Henry  has  many  friends  among 
the  excellent  of  the  earth ;  all  love  him,  and  he  is  full  of  love, 
but  sure  a  pitiful  sight  to  see.  His  heart  is  with  us.  He 
mourns  over  the  trouble  of  the  time.  He  weeps  for  the  poor 
folk,  living  and  dying  without  the  sacraments.  But  the  Inter- 
dict crushes  bis  soul.  Now  he  has  all  but  gathered  heart  to  do 
as  Tauler  doth— preach  and  labour  on.  unmoved  by  all  this 
uproar,  but  anon  his  courage  is  gone,  and  he  falls  back  into 
his  fear  again  as  soon  as  he  is  left  alone.  He  sits  and  pores  over 
those  letters  of  spiritual  consolation  which  Margaret  Ebner  has 
written  to  him.     He  says  sometimes  she  alone  retains  him  on 

3  Many  passnges   in   his  HcUigcn-  Wackernagel,  Alfd.  Lescb.  p.  853. 
Ictcn   are  altogether  in    the   spirit    of  ■•  See  Sclimidts  Tauler,  Appendix, 

Eckart,  and  have  their  origin,  beyond  p.  172,  &c.,  where  such  information  as 

question,  in  his  sayings,  or  in  those  of  can  be  obtained  concerning  Henry  of 

his  disciples. — See  pp.114,  225,   150,  N'ordlingen  is  given. 
1 87  {Pfciffer),  and  also  the  extracts  in 


c.  3.]  Henry  of  Nonilingen.  2  i  7 

ihe  earth.  Verily  I  fear  me  that,  priest  as  he  is,  some  hopeless 
earthly  love  mingles  with  his  friendship  for  that  saintly  woman. 
He  has  had  to  flee  from  his  home  for  refusing  to  perform  se'-- 
vice.  Strasburg,  in  that  case,  can  be  no  abiding  place  tor  him. 
I  see  nothing  before  him  but  a  wretched  wandering,  perhaps  tor 
years.  I  cannot  get  him  to  discern  the  malice  of  Pope  John, 
rather  than  the  wrath  of  heaven,  in  the  curse  that  withers  us. 
I  gave  him  a  full  account  of  what  the  Pope's  court  at  Avignon 
truly  is,  as  I  gathered  from  a  trusty  eye-witness,  late  come 
from  thence,  whom  I  questioned  long  the  other  day.'  I  told 
him  that  gold  was  the  one  true  god  there — our  German  wealth, 
wrung  out  from  us,  and  squandered  on  French  courtiers,  players, 
buftbons,  and  courtezans — Christ  sold  daily  for  it — the  palace 
full  of  cardinals  and  prelates,  grey-haired  debauchees  and  filthy 
mockers,  to  a  man — accounting  chastity  a  scandal,  and  the  soul's 
immortality  and  coming  judgment  an  old  wife's  fable  ; — yea, 
simony,  adultery,  murder,  incest,  so  frequent  and  unashamed, 
that  the  Frenchmen  themselves  do  say  the  Pope's  coming  hath 
corrupted  them.  I  asked  him  if  these  were  the  hands  to  take 
up  God's  instruments  of  wrath  to  bruise  with  them  his  creatures  ? 
But  all  in  vain.  There  is  an  awfulness  in  the  very  name  of 
Pope  which  blind?  reason  and  strikes  manhood  down,  in  him, 
as  in  thousands  more. 

A.D.  1332.  Fourth  tvcck  after  Easier. — But  now  awaked 
from  the  first  sleep  I  have  had  for  the  last  three  days  and 
nights.  I  set  down  in  a  word  or  two  what  hath  happened,  then 
out  to  action  again.  Last  "Wednesday,  at  the  great  festival,  the 
nobles,  knights,  and  senators,  with  a  brave  show  of  fair  ladies, 

'  Compare  Petrarch's  account  in  his  finibm  patriis  exturbatos,  quseque  con- 
letters,  cited  by  Gicsaler :  '  Mitto  stu-  tumeharuni  gravissima  est,  et  violalas 
pr.i,  raptus,  incestus,  adulteria,  qui  conjugcs  et  e.xterno  semine  gravidas 
jam  pontificalis  lascivije  ludi  sunt  :  rursus  accipere,  et  post  partum  red- 
mitto  raptarum  viros,  ne  mutire  au-  dere  ad  alternam  satietatcm  abutcu- 
dcant,  non  tantum  avitis  laribus,  sed  tium  coactos." 


2l8 


Gcnnan  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.        [b. 


banqueted  at  the  grand  house  in  the  Brandgasse/     Within  far 
into   the    night,  minstrelsy  and  dancing;    without,  the  street 
blocked  up  with  a  crowd  of  serving  men    and  grooms  with 
horses,  torch-bearers,  and  lookers-on  of  all  sorts-when,  sud- 
denly, the  music  stopped-they  heard  shouts  and  the  cksh  of 
swords  and  shrill  screams.     There  had  been  a  quarrel  between 
a  Zorn   and  a  Mullenheim— they  drew— Von    Hunefeld  was 
killed  on  the  spot,  another  of  the  Zorns  avenged  him  by  cutting 
down  Wasselenheim  ;  the  conflict  became  general,  in  hall,  in 
the  antechambers,  down  the  great  staircase,  out  on  the  steps,  the 
retamers  took  part  on  either  side,  and  the  fray  ended  in  the 
flight  of  the  Zorns,  who  left  six  slain  in  the  house  and  in  the 
street.     Two  were  killed  on  the  side  of  the  Miillenheims.     All 
who  fell  were  of  high  rank,  and  several  of  either  faction  are 
severely  wounded.    They  draw  off  to  their  quarters,  each  breath- 
mg  vengeance,  preparing  for  another  conflict  at  daybreak.    All 
the  rest  of  the  night  the  Landvogt  and  Gotzo  von  Grosstein 
were  ridmg  to  and  fro  to  pacify  them— to  no  purpose.     Each 
party  declared  they  would  send  for  the  knights  and  gentry  of 
their  side  from  the  country  round  about.     I  was  with  Burckard 
Zwmger  when  we  heard  this.     '  Now,'  said  I,  *  or  all  is  lost. 
Off,  and  harangue  the  people.      I  will  get    the    best  of  the 
burghers  together.'    We  parted.     All  the  city  was  as  ".r.     As 
I  made  my  way  from  house  to  house,  I  sent  the  people  I  met 
ofi'  to  the  market  place  to  hear  Zwinger.     I  could  hear  their 
shouts,  summons  enough  now,  without  any  other.     When   I 
got  back  to  the  Roland's  pillar,  I  found  that  his  plain,  home- 
thrust  speech  had  wrought  the  multitude  to  what  we  would,  and 
no  more.    Snatches  of  it  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth,  like  sparks 
of  fire,— he  had  struck  well  while  the  iron  was  hot.     'To  the 
Stadtmeister  !'  was  the  cry.      '  The  keys  !      The  seal !      The 
standard  !    We  will  have  our  standard.    Let  the  citizens  defend 

6  Laguillc  gives  an  account  of  Ihis  revolution,  Hist,  d' Alsace,  p.  276. 


c.  5.1  Ijisiirrcctio/i.  2  \  9 

their  own  !'  Most  of  the  burghers  were  of  one  mind  with 
Zwinger,  and  we  went  in  a  body  (the  crowd  shouting  behind  us, 
a  roaring  sea  of  heads,  and  the  bell  on  the  townhouse  ringing 
as  never  before)  to  demand  the  keys  of  young  Sieck.  He  yielded 
all  with  trembling.  By  daybreak  we  had  dispersed ;  the 
several  corporations  repaired  armed  to  their  quarters  ;  the  gates 
were  shut ;  the  bridges  guarded  ;  the  walls  manned.  All  was 
in  our  hands.  So  far  safe.  The  nobles,  knights,  and  gentry 
of  the  neighbourhood  came  up  in  the  morning  in  straggling 
groups,  approaching  the  city  from  various  quarters,  with  as 
many  of  their  men  as  could  be  hastily  gathered,  but  drew  off 
again  when  they  saw  our  posture  of  defence.  It  was  truly  no 
time  for  them.  This  promptitude  has  saved  Strasburg  from 
being  a  field  of  battle  in  every  street  for  counts  and  men  at 
arms,  who  despise  and  hate  the  citizens — whose  victory,  on 
whatever  side,  would  have  been  assured  pillage  and  rapine, 
and,  in  the  end,  the  loss  of  our  privilege  to  deal  solely  for  our- 
selves in  our  own  affairs.  Well  done,  good  Zwinger,  thou  prince 
of  bakers,  with  thy  true  warm  heart,  and  cool  head,  and  ready 
tongue  !  To  our  praise  be  it  said,  no  deed  of  violence  was 
done  ;  there  was  no  blood-thirstiness,  no  spoiling,  but  a  steady 
purpose  in  the  vast  crowd  that,  hap  what  would,  no  strangers 
should  come  in  to  brawl  and  rob  in  Strasburg. 

While  the  gates  have  been  closed  and  the  Town  Hall  guarded, 
we  have  been  deliberating  on  a  new  senate.  Four  new  Stadt- 
meisters  elected.  Zwinger  made  Amtmeister.  The  magistracy 
taken  out  of  the  exclusive  hands  of  the  great  families  and  open 
to  the  citizens  generally,  gentlemen,  burghers,  and  artizans,  side 
by  side.  The  workmen  no  longer  to  be  slaves  to  the  caprice  of 
the  gentry.  The  nobles  are  disarmed  for  a  time,  to  help  them 
settle  their  quarrel  more  quickly.  I  go  the  rounds  with  the 
horse  patrol  every  night.  The  gates  are  never  to  be  opened 
except  when  the  great  bell  has  rung  to  give  permission.     We 


2  20         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.        [i 


sit  in  the  Town  Hall  with  our  swords.  I  took  my  place  there 
this  morning,  armed  to  the  teeth,  and  verily  my  Margarita 
seemed  proud  enough  when  she  sent  me  forth,  with  a  kiss,  to 
my  new  dignity,  clad  in  good  steel  instead  of  senatorial  finery. 
We  have  every  prospect  of  peace  and  prosperousness.  The 
nobles  see  our  strength,  and  must  relinquish  with  as  good  a 
grace  as  they  may  a  power  they  have  usurped.  The  main  part 
of  the  old  laws  will  abide  as  before.  All  is  perfectly  quiet. 
There  has  been  no  mere  vengeance  or  needless  rigour.  I  hear 
nothing  worse  than  banishment  will  be  inflicted  upon  any— that 
only  on  a  itw.     The  bishop's  claws  will  be  kept  shorter. 


* 


1338.  August.  St.  Bart/ioionicw's  Day.— Now  is  the  rent 
between  clerk  and  layman,  pope  and  emperor,  wider  even  than 
heretofore.  Last  month  was  held  the  electorial  diet  at  Rhense. 
The  electors,  by  far  the  greater  part,  with  Louis ;  and  their  bold 
doings  now  apparent.  Yesterday  was  issued,  at  Frankfort,  a 
manifesto  of  the  Emperor's,  wherein  Benedict,  he  and  all  his 
curses,  are  set  at  nought,  and  the  mailed  glove  manfully  hurled 
in  his  teeth.  Thereby  he  declares,  that  whomsoever  the 
electors  choose  they  will  have  acknowledged  rightful  emperor, 
whether  the  pope  bless  or  bann,  and  all  who  gainsay  this  are 
traitors ;— that  the  emperor  is  not,  and  will  not  be,  in  anywise 
dependent  on  the  pope.  All  good  subjects  are  called  on  to 
disregard  the  Interdict,  and  such  towns  or  states  as  obey  the 
same  are  to  forfeit  their  charters.' 

It  was  indeed  high  time  to  speak  out.  Louis,  losing  heart, 
tried  negotiation,  and  made  unworthy  concessions  to  the  pope, 
whereon  he  (impatient,  they  say,  to  get  back  to  Italy)  would 
have  come  to  an  agreement,  but  the  French  cardinals  took  care 
to  cross  and  undo  all.  The  emperor  even  applied  to  Philip 
personally— asking  the  King  of  France,  forsooth,  to  suffer  him 

1  Schmidt's  Tauler,  p.  12. 


a  3.1  A    Warlike  Bishop. 


to  be  king  of  the  Romans — then,  finding  that  vain,  is  leagued 
with  the  English  king,  and  war  declared  against  France.  This 
sounds  bravely.  Shame  on  the  electors  if  they  hold  not  to 
their  promise  now. 

As  to  our  Strasburg,  we  stand  by  the  emperor,  as  of  old, 
despite  our  bishop  Berthold,  who,  with  sword  instead  of  crook, 
has  done  battle  with  the  partizans  of  Louis  for  now  some  years, 
gathering  help  from  all  parts  among  the  nobles  and  the  gentry, 
burning  villages,  besieging  and  being  besieged,  spoiling  and 
being  spoiled;  moreover,  between  whiles,  thinking  to  win  him 
self  the  name  of  a  zealous  pastor  by  issuing  decrees  against  long 
Jiair  growing  on  clerks'  heads,  and  enforcing  fiercely  all  the  late 
bulls  against  the  followers  of  Eckart,  the  Ueghards,  and  others.* 
Last  year  he  tasted  six  weeks'  imprisonment,  having  quarrelled 
widi  the  heads  of  the  chapter.  Rudolph  von  Hohenstein  and 
others  of  the  opposite  party,  surrounded  one  night  the  house  ot 
the  Provost  of  Haselach,  where  he  lay,  and  carried  him  off  in 
his  shirt  to  the  Castle  of  Vendenti;  and  smartly  did  they  make 
him  pay  before  he  came  out.  We  have  full  authority  to  declare 
war  against  him,  if  he  refuses  now  to  submit  to  Louis,  as  I 
think  not  likely,  seeing  how  matters  go  at  present.  He  had 
the  conscience  to  expect  that  we  magistrates  would  meddle  in 
his  dispute  and  take  his  part.  Even  the  senators,  who  adhere 
mainly  to  the  Zorn  family,  were  against  him,  and  methinks 
after  all  he  has  done  to  harass  and  injure  us,  we  did  in  a  sort 
return  good  for  evil  in  being  merely  lookers-on. 

Tauler  is  away  on  a  visit  to  Basle,  where  the  state  of  parties 
is  precisely  similar  to  our  own,  the  citizens  there,  as  in  Friburg, 
joining  our  league  for  Louis  and  for  Germany  ;  and  the  bishop 
against  them,  tooth  and  nail.^  My  eldest  boy  {God  bless  him, 
he  is  fifteen  this  day,  and  a  lad  for  a  father  to  be  proud  of)  hath 
accompanied  the  Doctor  thither,  having  charge  of  sundry  mat- 

8  Laguille,  liv.  xxiv.  p.  280.  ^  Schmidt,  p.  22. 


222         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [n.  vi. 

ters  of  business  for  me  there.  Had  word  from  him  last  week. 
They  have  somehow  procured  a  year's  remission  of  the  Interdict 
for  Basle,  He  says  Suso  came  to  see  Tauler,  and  that  they  had 
long  talk  together  for  two  days.  Henry  of  Nordlingen  is  there 
likewise,  and  now  that  the  pope  hath  kennelled  his  barking  curse 
for  a  twelvemonth,  preaches,  to  the  thronging  of  the  churches, 
wherever  he  goes. 

A.D.  1339.  y^ajiuary. — The  new  year  opens  gloomily.  With- 
out loss  of  time,  fresh-forged  anathemas  are  come,  and  coming, 
against  the  outspoken  emperor  and  this  troublesome  Germany. 
Some  of  the  preachers,  and  the  bare-footed  friars  especially, 
have  yet  remained  to  say  mass  and  perform  the  offices ;  now, 
even  these  are  leaving  the  city.  Some  cloisters  have  stood  for 
now  two  or  three  years  quite  empty.  Many  churches  are  de- 
serted altogether,  and  the  doors  nailed  up.  The  magistracy 
have  issued  orders  to  compel  the  performance  of  service.  The 
clerks  are  fairly  on  the  anvil ;  the  civil  hammer  batters  them 
on  the  one  side,  and  the  ecclesiastical  upon  the  other  with 
alternate  strokes. 

Bitter  wind  and  sleet  this  morning.  Saw  three  Dominicans 
creeping  back  into  the  town,  who  had  left  it  a  month  ago,  re- 
fusing to  say  mass.  Poor  wretches,  how  starved  and  woe-begone 
they  looked,  after  miserable  wanderings  about  the  country  in  the 
snow,  winter  showing  them  scant  courtesy,  and  sure  I  am  the 
boors  less ;  and  now  coming  back  to  a  deserted  convent  and  to 
a  city  where  men's  faces  are  towards  them  as  a  flint.  Straight, 
as  I  saw  them,  there  came  into  my  mind  that  goodly  exhortation 
of  Dr.  Tauler's,  that  we  should  show  mercy,  as  doth  God,  unto 
all,  enemies  and  friends  alike,  for  he  that  loveth  not  his  brother 
whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God,  whom  he  hath  not 
seen  ?^°     Ran  after  them,  called  them  in,    thawed  them,  fed 

'"  Tauler's  Sermon  on  the  Twenty-  markable  for  beauty  and  discrimina- 
second  Sunday  after  Trinity  contains  tion.  Tauler's  Frcdi^ten,  vol  ii.  p. 
an  exhortation  to   Christian  love,  re-      591  (Berlin,  1841). 


c.  3.]  Soul-starvi)tg  and  Body-starving.  223 

them,  comforted  them  with  kind  words  and  good  ale  by  the 
great  fire, — then  argued  with  them.  They  thought  it  a  cruel 
thing  that  they  must  starve  because  po])e  and  emperor  are  at 
feud.  *  And  is  it  not,'  urged  1,  'a  crueller  that  thousands  of 
innocent  poor  folk  sJiould  live  without  sacrament,  never  hear  a 
mass,  perhaps  die  unshriven,  for  the  very  same  reason  ?  Is  not 
God's  law  higher  than  the  pope's, — do  to  others  as  ye  would 
they  should  do  unto  you  ?  Could  you  look  for  other  treatment 
at  the  hands  of  our  magistrates,  and  expect  to  be  countenanced 
and  sustained  by  them  in  administering  the  malediction  of  their 
enemies  ?  Thought  it  most  courteous,  however,  to  ply  them 
more  pressingly  with  food  than  with  arguments. 

While  they  were  there,  in  comes  my  little  Otto,  opens  his 
eyes  wide  with  wonder  to  see  them,  and  presently  breaks  out 
with  the  words,  now  on  the  tongue  of  every  Strasburger,  a 
rhyming  version  of  the  decree  : — 

They  shall  still  their  masses  sing, 

Or  out  of  the  city  we'll  make  them  spring." 

Told  him  he  should  not  sing  that  just  then,  and,  when  he  was 
out  of  the  room,  bade  them  mark  by  that  straw  which  way  the 
wind  blew. 

I  record  here  a  vision  vouchsafed  to  that  eminent  saint  the 
abbess  Christina  Ebner,  of  Engelthal,  near  Nurnberg.  She  be- 
held the  Romish  Church  in  the  likeness  of  a  great  minster,  fair 
to  see,  but  with  doors  closed  by  reason  of  the  bann.  Priestly 
voices,  solemn  and  sweet,  were  heard  to  chant  within;  and, 
without,  stood  a  multitude  waiting  and  hearkening,  but  no 
man  dared  enter.  Then  came  there  to  the  nun  one  in  the  habit 
of  a  preacher,  and  told  her  that  he  would  give  her  words  to 
speak  to  comfort  the  poor  folk  withal  that  stood  outside, — and 
that  man  was  the  Lord  Christ. 

"  Schmidt,  p.  14 : — 

'  do  soltent  sii  ouch  fiirbas  singen 
Oder  aber  us  der  statt  springen.' 


2  24         German  Mysticism  in  the  14''''  Century.        [«.  vi. 


And  verily,  in  some  sort,  so  hath  God  done,  having  pity  upon 
us,  for  through  all  Rhineland  hath  he  moved  godly  men,  both 
clerks  and  laity,  to  draw  nearer  the  one  to  the  other,  forming 
together  what  we  call  the  association  of  the  Friends  of  God, 
for  the  better  tending  of  the  inward  life  in  these  troublous 
times,  for  wrestling  with  the  Almighty  on  behalf  of  his  suffering 
Christendom,  and  for  the  succour  of  the  poor  people,  by  preach- 
ing and  counsel  and  sacrament,  that  are  now  as  sheep  without  a 
shepherd,  and  perishing  for  lack  of  spiritual  bread. '^  Tauler  is 
of  the  foremost  among  them,  and  with  his  brethren,  Egenolph 
of  Ehenheim  and  Dietrich  of  Colmar,  labours  without  ceasing, 
having  now  the  wider  field  and  heavier  toil,  as  so  few  are  left  in 
Strasburg  who  will  perform  any  church  service  for  love  or 
money.  Ah  !  well  might  the  Abbess  Christina  say  of  him  that 
the  Spirit  of  God  dwelt  within  him  as  a  sweet  harping.  He 
has  travelled  much  of  late,  and  wherever  he  goes  spreads 
blessing  and  consolation ;  the  people  flock  to  hear  him;  the 
hands  of  the  Friends  of  God  are  strengthened  ;  and  a  savour 
of  heavenly  love  and  wisdom  is  left  behind.  His  good  name 
hath  journeyed,  they  say,  even  beyond  the  Alps,  and  into  the 
Low  Countries.  Neither  are  there  wanting  many  like-minded, 
though  none  equal  to  him.  He  found  at  Cologne  Henry  of 
Lowen,  Henry,  and  Franke,  and  John  of  Sterngasse,"  brother 
Dominicans  all  of  them,  preaching  constantly,  with  much  of 
his  own  fervour,  if  with  a  doctrine  more  like  that  of  Eckart. 
In  Switzerland  there  is  Suso,  and  I  hear  much  of  one  Ruysbroek, 
in  the  Netherlands,  a  man  younger  than  Tauler,  and  a  notable 
master  in  the  divine  art  of  contemplation. 

Among  the  Friends  of  God  are  numbers  both  of  men  and 
women  of  every  rank,  abbots  and  farmers,  knights  and  nuns, 

'-  Schmidt's  Tauler,  Anhang  iibcr  von  Sterngasse,  are  given  among  the 

die  Gottesfrainde.  Spriiche  Deittscher  Mysiiker,  in  Wack- 

'^  Passages  from  two  of  these  mys-  ernagel,  p.  S90. 
tics,  Heinrich  von  Lowen  and  Johannes 


c.  3]  The  Friends  of  God.  22 


monks  and  artizans.  There  is  Conrad,  Abbot  of  Kaisersheim  : 
there  are  the  nuns  of  Unterlinden  and  KHngenthal,  at  Colmar 
and  Basle,  as  well  as  the  holy  sisters  of  Engelthal ;  the  knights 
of  Rlieinfeld,  Pfaftenheini,  and  Landsberg  ;  our  rich  merchant 
here,  Rulman  Merswin,  and  one,  unworthy  of  so  good  a  name, 
that  holds  this  pen.  Our  law  is  tliat  universal  love  commanded 
by  Christ,  and  not  to  be  gainsaid  by  his  vicar.  Some  have 
joined  themselves  to  us  for  awhile,  and  gone  out  from  us 
because  they  were  not  of  us ;  for  we  teach  no  easy  road  to 
heaven  for  the  pleasing  of  the  flesh.  Many  call  us  sectaries, 
Beghards,  brethren  of  the  Free  Spirit,  or  of  the  New  Spirit, 
and  what  not.  They  might  call  us  by  worse  names,  but  we  art 
none  of  these.  The  prophecies  of  some  among  us,  concerning 
judgments  to  be  looked  for  at  the  hands  of  God,  and  the  faith- 
ful warnings  of  others,  have  made  many  angry.  Yet  are  not 
such  things  needed,  when,  as  Dr.  Tauler  saith,  the  princes  and 
prelates  are,  too  many  of  them,  worse  than  Jews  and  infidels, 
and  mere  horses  for  the  devil's  riding."  So  far  from  wishing 
evil,  we  mourn  as  no  others  over  the  present  woe,  and  the 
Friends  of  God  are,  saith  Dr.  Tauler  again,  pillars  of  Christen- 
dom, and  holders  off  for  awhile  of  the  gathered  cloud  of  wrath. 
Beyond  all  question,  if  all  would  be  active  as  they  are  active 
in  works  of  love  to  their  fellows,  the  face  of  the  times  would 
brighten  presently,  and  the  world  come  into  sunshine. 

It  was  but  yesterday  that  in  his  sermon  Tauler  repeated  the 
saying  of  one — an  eminent  Friend  of  God — '  I  cannot  pass  my 
neighbour  by  without  wishing  for  him  in  my  heart  more  of  the 
blessedness  of  heaven  than  for  myself;' — 'and  that,'  said  the 
good  Doctor,  '  I  call  true  love.'  Sure  I  am  that  such  men 
stand  between  the  living  and  the  dead.^" 

'*  See  Tauler's  Prcdii{icn,  vol.  ii.  p.      vices   of  the  Friends   of  God,   vol.    i. 
584  ;  and  also,  concerning  the  charge      pred.  xxvi.  p.  194  ;  prcd.  xi.  p.  85. 
of  sectarianism,  p.  595  ;  and  the  ser-  ''  Ibid.,  vol.  ii.  prcd.  Ixvi.  p.  594. 

VOL.  I.  O 


226        German  Mysticism  in  the  14^^'  Cenfiiry.        [b.  vi. 


1339.  March. — Much  encouraged  on  hearing  Dr,  Taulev's 
sermon  on  '  Whose  is  the  image  and  superscription  ?' '"  It 
was  the  last  part  that  gladdened  me  more  especially,  when  he 
was  enforcing  watchfulness  and  self-examination,  and  yet  showed 
that  the  command  might  be  obeyed  by  men  such  as  I  am,  in 
the  midst  of  a  worldly  calling.  Many,  said  he,  complain  that 
they  are  so  busied  with  outward  things  as  to  have  no  time  to 
look  inward.  But  let  such,  for  every  six  steps  they  have  to 
take  outward  in  their  daily  duty,  take  one  step  inward,  and  ob- 
serve their  hearts,  and  their  business  will  be  to  them  no  stum- 
bling-block. Many  are  cloistered  in  body  while  thought  and 
desire  wander  to  and  fro  over  the  earth.  But  many  others  do,  even 
amid  the  noise  and  stir  of  the  market-place  and  the  shop,  keep 
such  watch  over  their  hearts,  and  set  such  ward  on  their  senses, 
that  they  go  unharmed,  and  their  inner  peace  abides  unbroken. 
Such  men  are  much  more  truly  to  be  called  monks  than  those 
who,  within  a  convent  wall,  have  thought  and  senses  so  distraught 
that  they  can  scarce  say  a  single  Paternoster  with  true  devotion. 

He  said  that  God  impressed  his  image  and  superscription  on 
our  souls  when  he  created  us  in  his  image.  All  true  Christians 
should  constantly  retire  into  themselves,  and  examine  through- 
out their  souls  wherein  this  image  of  the  Holy  Trinity  lieth, 
and  clear  away  therefrom  such  images  and  thoughts  as  are  not 
of  God's  impressing, — all  that  is  merely  earthly  in  love  and 
care,  all  that  hath  not  God  purely  for  its  object.  It  must  be  in 
separateness  from  the  world,  withdraws.^  from  all   trust  and 

'"  The  sermon   referred  to  is   that  of  Christ,— has  become  conformed,  as 

on   the    Iwenty-third    Sunday  after  far  as  man  can  be,  to  his  spirit  and  his 

Trinity,  vol.  ii.  p.  598.  sufferings,    then  there   commences    a 

While   he  is   careful   to   warn    his  period  of  repose  and  joy  in  which  there 

hearers    against   the   presumption  of  is  an  extraordinary  intuition  of  Deity, 

attempting   at    once  to    contemplate  which   approximates   to   that    perfect 

Deity  apart  from  its  manifestation  in  vision   promised  hereafter,    when  we 

the  humanity  of  Christ,  he  yet  seems  shall  see,  not  '  through  a  glass  darkly,' 

to  admit  that  when  the  soul  has  been  but  face  to  face.  — Vol.  ii.  p.  609. 
thoroughly  exercised  in  the  imitatio;'. 


.]  Taiiler  on  the  Image  of  God.  227 


satisfaction  in  what  is  creaturely,  that  we  present  God  the 
image  lie  hath  engraven,  clear  and  free  from  rust.  This  image 
and  siiuerscription  lies  in  the  inmost  inmost  of  the  soul,  whither 
God  only  cometh,  and  neither  men  nor  angels,  and  where  he 
delights  to  dwell.  He  will  share  it  with  no  other.  He  hath 
said,  '  My  delight  is  in  the  sons  of  men.'  Thus  is  the  inmost 
of  our  soul  united  to  the  inmost  of  the  very  Godhead,  where 
the  eternal  Father  doth  ever  speak  and  bring  forth  his  eternal 
essential  Word,  his  only-begotten  Son,  equal  in  honour,  power, 
and  worthiness,  as  saith  the  Apostle — '  He  is  the  brightness  of 
his  glury  and  the  express  image  of  his  person.'  By  him  hath 
the  Father  made  all  things.  As  all  things  have  their  beginning 
and  source  from  the  Godhead,  by  the  birth  of  the  eternal  Word 
out  of  the  Father,  so  do  all  creatures  in  their  essence  subsist 
by  the  same  birth  of  the  Son  out  of  the  Father,  and  therefore 
shall  they  all  return  in  the  same  way  to  their  source,  to  wit, 
through  the  Son  to  the  Father.  From  this  eternal  birth  of  the 
Son  ariseth  the  love  of  God  the  Father  to  his  divine  Son,  and 
that  of  the  Son  to  his  divine  Father,  which  love  is  the  Holy 
Ghost — an  eternal  and  divine  Bond,  uniting  the  Father  and  the 
Son  in  everlasting  Love.  These  three  are  essentially  one — one 
single  pure  essential  unity,  as  even  the  heathen  philosophers 
bear  witness.  Therefore,  saith  Aristotle,  '  There  is  but  one 
Lord  who  ordaineth  all  things.' 

He,  therefore,  that  would  be  truly  united  to  God  must  dedi- 
cate the  penny  of  his  soul,  with  all  its  faculties,  to  God  alone, 
and  join  it  unto  Him.  For  if  the  highest  and  most  glorious 
Unity,  which  is  God  himself,  is  to  be  united  to  the  soul,  it 
must  be  through  oneness  {Einigkeit).  Now  when  the  soul 
hath  utterly  forsaken  itself  and  all  creatures,  and  made  itself 
free  from  all  manifoldness,  then  the  sole  Unity,  which  is  God, 
answers  truly  to  the  oneness  of  the  soul,  for  then  is  there 
nothing  in  the  soul  beside  God.    Therefore  between  such  a  soul 

Q2 


228         German  Mysticism  in  tJie  14'    Century.        [r.  vi 


and  God  (if  a  nun  be  so  prepnrjj  that  his  soul  hangs  on 
nothing  but  God  himself)  there  is  .  o  great  a  oneness  that  they 
become  one,  as  the  Apostle  saith,  ■  He  that  is  johied  to  tlie 
Lord  is  one  spirit.' 

But  there  are  some  who  v/ill  fly  before  they  have  wings,  and 
pluck  the  apples  before  they  are  ripe,  and,  at  the  very  outset  of 
the  Divine  life,  be  so  puffed  up  that  it  contents  them  not  to 
enter  in  at  the  door  and  contemplate  Christ's  humanity,  but 
they  will  apprehend  his  highness  and  incomprehensible  Deity 
only.  So  did  once  a  priest,  and  fell  grievously,  and  bitterly 
mourned  his  folly,  and  had  to  say,  '  Ah,  most  Merciful  !  had  I 
followed  truly  the  pattern  of  thy  holy  humanity,  it  had  not 
been  thus  with  me  !'  Beware  of  such  perilous  presumption — 
your  safe  course  is  to  perfect  yourselves  first  in  following  the 
lowly  life  of  Christ,  and  in  earnest  study  of  the  shameful  cross. 

Methinks  this  is  true  counsel,  and  better,  for  our  sort  at 
least,  than  Master  Eckart's  exhortation  to  break  through  into 
the  essence,  and  to  exchange  God  made  manifest  for  the 
absolute  and  inscrutable  Godhead. 

1339.  March  20. — Finished  to-day  a  complete  suit  of  armour 
for  young  Franz  Miillenheim.  The  aristocratic  families  bear  the 
change  of  government  more  good-humouredly  than  I  looked  for. 
Their  influence  is  still  great,  and  they  can  afford  to  make  a 
virtue  of  necessity.  Most  of  them  now,  too,  are  on  the  right  side. 

A  great  improvement — locking  our  doors  at  night.^'  This 
is  the  first  time  I  have  thought  to  record  it,  though  the  custom 
has  been  introduced  these  nine  years.  Before,  there  was  not  a 
lock  to  a  house-door  in  Strasburg,  and  if  you  wanted  to  shut 
it,  on  ever  so  great  a  need,  you  had  to  work  with  spade  and 
shovel  to  remove  a  whole  mountain  of  dirt  collected  about  the 
threshold.  Several  new  roads,  too,  made  of  late  by  the  mer- 
thant-league  of  the  Rhineland. 
"  Meiners,  Hist.  Vergkichungdir  Sitten,  b'c,  des  Mittdalters,  vol.  ii.  p.  117. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Tf  yon  would  be  pleased  to  make  acquaintance  with  a  solid  theology  of  the 
good  old  sort  in  the  German  tongue,  get  John  Tauler's  sermons  ;  for  neither  in 
L.uiii  nor  in  our  own  language  have  I  ever  seen  a  theology  more  sound  or  more 
in  harmony  with  the  Gospel.— Luthek  [to  Spalatiii). 

Die  Sehnsucht  und  der  Traiime  Weben 

Sie  sind  der  weicheii  Seele  siiss, 
Doch  edler  ist  ein  starkes  Streben 

Und  macht  den  schonen  Traum  gewiss.' 

UlILAND. 

/~\N  another  evening,  after  Kate  had  played  a  plaintive  ;.ir 
on  the  piano  as  an  overture  ;  when  Atherton  had  praised 
it  as  expressive  of  the  upward  fluttering  struggle  of  the  Psyche 
of  Mysticism,  and  Gower  had  quoted  Jean  Paul's  fancy,  where 
he  says  that  sweet  sounds  are  the  blue  weaves  that  hide  the  sea- 
monsters  which  lurk  in  the  deeps  of  life — Adolf's  journal  was 
continued,  as  follows  : — 

1339.  December.  St.  Barbara's  Day. — Three  days  ago,  at 
the  close  of  his  sermon.  Doctor  Tauler  said  he  would  preach 
to-day  on  the  highest  perfection  attainable  in  this  life.  Went 
to  hear  him.  The  cloister-chapel  crowded  long  before  the 
time.  He  began  by  telling  us  that  he  had  much  to  say,  and  so 
would  not  to-day  preach  from  the  gospel  according  to  his  wont, 
and  moreover  would  not  put  much  Latin  into  his  sermon,  but 
would  make  good  all  he  taught  with  Holy  Writ.  Then  he  went 
on  to  preach  on  the  necessity  of  dying  utterly  to  the  world  and 
to  our  own  will,  and  to  yield  ourselves  up,  '  dying-wise,'  into 

'  To  long  and  weave  a  woof  of  but  nobler  is  stout-hearted  striving, 
dreams  is  sweet  unto  the  feeble  soul,      and  makes  the  dream  reality. 


--0* 


German  Mysticism  in  the  14^^'  Century.        [r..  ti. 


the  hands  of  God.  He  gave  farther  four-and-twenty  marks, 
■whereby  we  may  discern  who  are  the  true,  righteous,  i'lumi- 
nated,  contemplative  men  of  God." 

Observed  close  under  the  pulpit  a  stranger  (by  his  dress, 
from  the  Oberland)  who  did  diligently  write  down,  from  time 
to  time,  what  the  Doctor  said — a  man  of  notable  presence,  in 
the  prime  of  life^  Avith  large  piercing  eyes  under  shagg}^  brows, 
eagle  nose,  thoughtful  head — altogether  so  royal  a  man  as  I 
never  before  saw.  He  mingled  with  the  crowd  aftei'  sermon, 
and  I  could  not  learn  who  he  was.  Several  others,  as  curious, 
and  no  wiser  than  myself.  This  mysterious  personage  may 
perha^DS  be  one  of  the  Friends  of  God,  who  are  numerous  in  the 
Oberland.  Methought  he  wished  to  escape  notice.  Perhaps 
he  is  a  Waldensian,  and  dreads  the  e\'il  eye  of  the  inquisitor. 

1^40.  January.  Eve  of  St.  Agnes. — Strange;  nothing  has 
been  seen  of  the  Doctor  for  this  whole  month.  His  penitents 
are  calling  continually  at  the  convent,  craving  admittance  to 
their  confessor,  but  he  will  see  no  one.  He  is  not  ill,  they  say, 
and  takes  his  part  in  the  convent  services  with  the  rest,  but 
never  stirs  beyond  the  walls.  None  of  his  many  friends  can 
tell  us  what  is  the  matter. 

1340.  /u/y.  St.  Alexins^  Day. — All  things  much  as  afore- 
time, that  is,  ill  enough.  Business  slack,  generally,  but  our 
hammers  going.  The  worst  is  this  loss  of  Tauler,  our  comfort 
in  our  trouble.  Many  reports,  no  certainty.  Some  say  he  has 
committed  some  crime,  and  sits  now  in  the  convent  prison.  This 
I  everywhere  contradict.  Others  will  have  it  that  he  is  gone 
mad.  Many  of  his  former  friends  are  now  turned  against  him, 
and  his  enemies  make  them  merry.  Went  again  to  the  convent 
to  get  Avhat  news   I  could.     Enquired  of  the  porter  why  the 

-  This  sermon  is  given  entire  in  the  succeeding  incidents   are   all   related 

second  chapter  of  tlie   Lebciisliistoric  by  the  same  autiiority.     The  cellarer 

de%    chrwiirdigeii     Doctors     Johanii  only  and  the  family  affairs  of  Adolf, 

Tauler,  prefixed  to  his  sermons.    The  appear  to  be  invented  by  Atherton. 


c.  4-1  A  tivo  Years^  Silence.  231 

Doctor  had  shut  himself  up.  He  replied,  *  Indeed,  sir,  and 
I  cannot  know.'  Methought  a  wonderful  close  answer  for  a 
porter.  Went  into  the  locutory.  In  the  passage  the  cook  ran  by 
me,  having  just  received  twenty-five  cuffs  on  the  head  for  leav- 
ing the  vessels  and  linen  dirty  on  Saturday  night.  Much 
laughter  thereat.  Several  monks  in  the  locutory,  among  them 
brother  Bernard,  the  cellarer,  an  acquaintance  of  mine— a  bust- 
ling, shrewd  little  man,  provider  of  the  monastic  prog^  to 
general  satisfaction,  talking  often  of  pittances  and  profound  in 
beeves, — a  brave  blade,  and  seen  swaggering  now  and  then  on 
holidays  with  sword  at  his  side,  affecting,  more  than  beseems, 
secular  gallantry.  Said,  when  I  asked  him  concerning  Tauler, 
'  Oh,  poor  fellow,  the  devil's  clawing  him  a  bit,  that's  all.' 
Another  said,  '  We  always  knew  it  would  be  this  way.'  A 
third,  '  I  said  so  from  the  first — spiritual  pride,  Lucifer's  sin, 
Lucifer's  sin  !'  Looked  at  the  rascal's  paunch — thought  he  ran 
little  danger  of  such  sin  from  any  over-mortifying  of  the  flesh. 
His  flesh  ought  to  have  mortified  /«';//,  the  brazen-face.  Spake 
up  for  Tauler  as  I  could,  but  saw  that  he  was  the  jest  of  his 
brethren — having  doubtless  to  bear  cruelty  and  mocking  along 
with  some  melancholy  inward  fight  of  afflictions — and  came 
away  home  with  a  heavy  heart.  Could  not  get  speech  with  the 
abbot,  who  was  busy  looking  to  the  iiionks'  beds,  that  they 
were  not  too  soft. 

1342.  New  Year's  A/j'.— Public  notice  given,  that  in  three 
days  Tauler  will  preach  once  more.  The  news  makes  great  talk. 
My  heart  sings  jubilate  thereat.  I  look  back  on  two  weary 
years  that  he  has  now  been  hidden  from  those  who  so  need 
him.  I  have  confessed  to  no  one  the  while — somehow,  could 
not  to  any  other — yet  I  fear  me  such  neglect  is  a  sin.  Those 
like-minded  with  Tauler  have  been  busy  among  us  in  their  work 
of  love,  but  the  master-spirit  is  sorely  missed,  notwithstanding. 
"  '\tl"""iton  defends  this  word  by  the  usage  of  Thomas  Fuller. 


232         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.       [b.  -m. 

One  Ludolph  of  Saxony,  who  was  a  Dominican,  and  has  come 
over  hither  from  Cologne  lately,  to  be  prior  of  the  new  Carthu- 
sian convent,  has  been  a  great  blessing  unto  us.  He  speaks  out 
boldly  against  abuses,  and  persuades  men  tenderly  to  follow 
Christ  carrying  the  cross. 

Bishop  Eerthold  quieter  of  late ;  finds  it  prudent  to  keep  on 
better  terms  at  present  with  the  emperor. 

Little  Hans  a  month  old  to-day.  A  household  of  now  five 
children.  Henry  of  great  service  to  me.  Think  sometimes  of 
leaving  the  business  with  him  almost  altogether,  if  only  to  have 
him  near.  Margarita  rot  again  ill  since  the  first  times  of  the 
interdict.  A  great  mercy  !  Getting  richer  yet,  and  tremble 
sometimes  lest  it  should  ensnare  my  soul,  therefore,  I  disen- 
cumber myself  at  intervals  of  considerable  sums  for  sick  and 
poor  folk.  Must  bear  in  mind  Tauler's  counsel  to  use  and  enjoy 
everything  intending  God  therein.  Find  my  affections  go  forth 
much — I  hope  not  too  much — towards  this  last  babe.  He 
thrives  well ;  verily,  no  child  could  be  more  unlike  the  blessed 
St.  Nicholas,  of  whom  I  have  heard  a  friar  say  that,  when  hang- 
ing on  his  mother's  breast,  he  fasted  Wednesdays  and  Fridays, 
and  could  no*  be  brought  to  suck  more  than  once  a  day.  But 
if  I  stay  to  number  up  my  blessings,  I  shall  have  a  list  longer 
than  the  curse-roll  of  the  Pope.  God  give  me  an  unworldly, 
thankful,  watchful  spirit ! 

1342.  Jaiiuary  6. — Alas!  that  I  should  have  to  write  what 
now  I  must !  I  forced  a  way  into  the  crowded  church — every 
part  filled  with  people,  wedged  in  below  so  that  they  could  not 
move,  clustered  like  bees  Avhere  they  had  climbed  above  into 
every  available  place,  and  a  dense  mass  in  the  porch  besides. 
The  Doctor  came,  looking  woefully  ill,  changed  as  I  scarce 
ever  saw  a  man,  to  live.  He  mounted  the  lectorium,  held  his 
cap  before  his  eyes,  and  said : 

'  O  merciful  and  eternal  God,  if  it  be  thy  will,  give  me  so  to 


4-]  TauUr  considered  to  be  a  Pool.  233 


speak  that  thy  divine  name  may  be  praised  and  honoured,  and 
these  men  bettered  thereby.' 

With  that  he  began  to  weep.  We  waited,  breathless.  Still 
he  wept,  and  could  speak  no  word,  his  sobs  audible  in  the 
stillness,  and  the  tears  making  their  way  through  his  fingers  as 
he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  This  continued  till  the  people 
grew  restless.  Longer  yet,  with  more  manifest  discontent.  At 
last  a  voice  cried  out  from  among  the  people  (I  think  it  was  that 
roughspoken  Carvel,  the  butcher), '  Now  then,  Sir,  how  long  are 
we  to  stop  here  ?  It  is  getting  late,  if  you  don't  mean  to  preach, 
let  us  go  home.' 

I  saw  that  Tauler  was  struggling  to  collect  himself  by  prayer, 
but  his  emotion  became  only  the  more  uncontrollable,  and  at 
last  he  said,  with  a  broken  voice, — 

'  Dear  brethren,  I  am  sorry  from  my  heart  to  have  kept  you 
so  long,  but  at  this  time  I  cannot  possibly  speak  to  you.  Pray 
God  for  me  that  he  would  help  me,  and  I  may  do  better  at 
another  time.' 

So  we  went  away,  and  the  report  thereof  was  presently  all 
over  Strasburg.  The  snowball  had  plenty  of  hands  to  roll  it, 
and  lost  nothing  by  the  way.  The  people,  numbers  of  them, 
seemed  to  me  with  a  wicked  glee  to  delight  in  showing  how  the 
learned  Doctor  had  made  a  fool  of  himself.  I'hose  who  had 
counted  him  mad  before  reckoned  themselves  now  little  short 
of  prophets.  Many  such  whom  I  met  in  the  streets  looked  and 
spoke  with  such  a  hateful  triumph  of  the  matter  as  well  nigh 
put  me  beside  myself  Not  so  long  ago,  no  one  could  satisfy 
them  but  Tauler ;  not  the  name  of  the  most  popular  of  saints 
oftener  on  their  lips  ;  the  very  ground  he  trod  on  was  blessed  ; 
a  kindly  word  from  his  lips  food  for  days — and  now  the  hands 
stretched  out  almost  in  adoration,  throw  mire  on  the  fallen  idol, 
and  not  a  'prentice  lad  behind  his  stall  but  hugs  himself  in  his 
superior  sanity.     Had  he  been  a  hunter  after  popularity,  what 


^34         German  Ivlysiicisni  in  the  14^^'  Century.        [n.  vi. 


a  judgnient  !  Verily  that  man  has  the  folly  of  a  tlious:iud  fools 
who  lives  for  the  applause  of  the  multitude.  But  I  know  how 
Tauler's  heart  bled  for  them. 

Friar  Bernard  came  over  this  evening.  He  says  the  supe- 
riors are  wroth  beyond  measure  v>'ith  Tauler  for  the  scandal  he 
has  brought  upon  the  order,  and  will  forbid  him  to  preach 
more.  Entertained  my  jovial  ganger  of  monks'  bellies  with 
the  best  cheer  I  had — he  has  a  good  heart  after  all,  and  is 
unfeignedly  sorry  for  Tauler's  disgrace.  Says  he  thinks  the 
Doctor  has  fasted  and  done  penance  beyond  his  strength,  that 
the  sudden  coming  out  from  his  cell  to  preach  to  such  numbers 
was  too  much  for  his  weakness, — that  he  will  get  over  it  and 
be  himself  again,  and  much  more, — to  the  hope  whereof  he 
pledged  me  in  another  glass,  and  left  me  not  a  little  comforted. 

1342.  y^anuary.  St.  Vincenfs  Day. — Saw  Bernard  again, 
who  gives  me  the  good  news  that  Dr.  Tauler  obtained  permis- 
sion from  the  prior  to  deliver  a  Latin  address  in  the  school, 
and  did  acquit  himself  to  such  admiration,  that  he  is  to  be 
allowed  to  preach  in  public  when  he  will. 

1342.  January  23. — Tauler  preached  to-day  in  the  chapel  of 
the  nunnery  of  St.  Agatha,  on  '  Behold  the  bridegroom  cometh  ; 
go  3'e  out  to  meet  him.'  A  wondrous  discourse — a  torrent  that 
seems  to  make  me  dizzy  yet.  As  he  was  describing,  more  like 
an  angel  than  a  man,  the  joy  of  the  bride  at  the  approach  of 
the  bridegroom,  a  man  cried  out,  '  It  is  true  !'  and  fell  senseless 
on  the  floor.  As  they  were  about  him  to  bring  him  to  him- 
self, a  woman  among  them  shrieked,  '  Oh,  stop,  sir,  stop  I  or 
he  will  die  in  our  arms  !'  Whereat  he  said  calmly,  and  with 
his  face  lighted  up  as  though  he  saw  the  heavens  opened, '  Ah, 
dear  children,  and  if  the  bridegroom  will  call  home  the  bride, 
shall  we  not  willingly  sufter  him  ?  But  nevertheless  I  will 
make  an  end.'  Then  after  sermon  he  read  mass  again,  and,  as 
I  came  out,  I  saw  the  people  gathered  about  several  persons  in 


]  Constant  Preaching.  235 


the  cowxt  who  "lay  on  the  ground,  as  though  dead,  sucli  had 
been  the  power  of  his  words. 

1342.  February.  St.  Blasius'  Day. — Now  Tauler  is  con- 
tinually preaching,  not  only  in  the  church  of  his  convent,  but  in 
those  of  various  monasteries  and  nunneries,  in  the  Beguiuasia, 
and  in  the  cells  wherein  little  companies  of  pious  women  have 
gathered  themselves  together  to  hide  from  the  dangers  of  the 
world.  He  never  cited  so  much  Latin  as  some,  now  less  than 
heretofore.  More  alive  than  ever,  it  would  seem,  to  our  wants, 
he  addresses  himself  mightily  to  heart  and  conscience,  which  he 
can  bind  up  or  smite  at  will.  His  love  and  care,  for  the  laity 
most  of  all,  is  a  marvel ;  he  lives  for  us,  and  yet  appears  to  hold 
himself  no  greater  than  the  least.  Before,  there  was  none  like 
him,  now  we  feel  that  in  heavenliness  of  nature  he  has  gone 
beyond  his  former  self  So  earnestly  does  he  exhort  to  active 
love  to  man,  as  well  as  to  perfect  resignation  to  God,  that 
already  a  new  spirit  seems  to  pervade  many,  and  they  begin  to 
care  for  others,  as  he  tells  us  the  first  Christians  did.  He  tells 
them  mere  prayers,  and  mass,  and  alms,  and  penance,  Avill  help 
them  nothing  unless  the  Holy  Spirit  breathes  life  into  them. 
He  says  the  priests  are  not  of  necessity  better  men  because 
they  oftener  taste  the  Lord's  body,  that  outward  things  such  as 
those  profit  nothing  alone,  and  that  those  who  love  their  fellows 
most  are  the  truest  instructors,  and  teach  more  wisely  than  all 
the  schools. 

1344.  March. — Tauler  hath  of  late,  besides  preaching  con- 
stantly as  ever,  begun  to  send  forth  from  time  to  time  sundry 
small  books,  full  of  consolation  and  godly  counsel  for  these 
days.  Copies  of  them  are  fast  multii)lied,  and  people  gather  to 
hear  them  read  at  each  other's  houses.  This  is  a  new  thing, 
and  works  powerfully. 

The  greatest  stir  has  been  made  by  two  letters  issued  by 
Tauler,  Ludolph  the  Carthusian,  and  otheis,  and  sent  out,  not 


236         German  Mysticism  in  the  14''^'  Century.        [c.  vi. 

only  through  Strasburg,  but  all  the  region  round  about.*  The 
bishop  is  very  angry  thereat  \  though,  before,  he  had  come 
several  times  to  hear  Tauler,  and  had  professed  no  small  admi- 
ration of  him.  One  of  these  letters  is  to  comfort  the  people, 
and  exhorts  all  priests  to  administer  the  sacraments  to  all  who 
shall  desire,  the  bann  notwithstanding.  '  For,'  it  saith,  'ye  are 
bound  to  visit  and  console  the  sick,  remembering  the  bitter  pain 
and  death  of  Christ,  who  hath  made  satisfaction,  not  for  your 
sins  only,  but  also  for  those  of  the  whole  world,  who  doth  repre- 
sent us  all  before  God,  so  that  if  one  falleth  innocently  under 
the  bann,  no  Pope  can  shut  him  out  of  heaven.  Ye  should, 
therefore,  give  absolution  to  such  as  wish  therefor — giving  heed 
rather  to  the  bidding  of  Christ  and  his  Apostles  than  to  the 
bann,  which  is  issued  only  out  of  malice  and  avarice.' 

Thus  truly  have  these  good  men  done,  and  many  with  them, 
so  that  numbers  have  died  in  peace,  fearing  the  bann  not  a 
whit,  whereas  before,  many  thousands,  unshriven,  gave  up  the 
ghost  in  the  horrors  of  despair. 

The  other  letter  is  addressed  to  the  learned  and  great  ones 
among  the  clergy.  It  saith  that  there  are  two  swords— a 
spiritual,  which  is  God's  word,  and  the  temporal,  the  secular 
power  : — that  these  two  are  to  be  kept  distinct ;  both  are  from 
God,  and  ought  not  to  be  contrary  the  one  to  the  other.  The 
spiritual  power  should  fulfil  its  proper  duty  and  uphold  the 
temporal,  while  that  again  should  protect  the  good  and  be  a 
terror  to  evil-doers.  If  temporal  princes  sin,  such  as  are  spiritual 
should  exhort  them,  in  love  and  humility,  to  amend  their  ways. 
It  is  against  the  law  of  Christ  that  the  shepherds,  when  one  of 
these  falls  beneath  their  displeasure,  should  for  that  reason  pre- 
sume to  damn  a  whole  country,  with  all  its  cities,  towns,  and 

■*  Tlicse  letters  are  preserved  in  sub-  introduction  by  Gorres  to  Diepen- 
Stance  in  Specklin's  Collectanea,  and  brock's  edition  of  Suso's  works  ;  pp. 
are  inserted,  from  that  somco,  in  the      .\\\v.  (S;c. 


c.  4. J  ]\[ysticisui  resists  tJie  Pope.  237 


villages,  where  dwell  the  poor  innocent  folk  who  are  no  par- 
lakers  in  the  sin.  It  cannot  be  proved  from  Scripture  that  all 
those  who  will  not  kiss  the  Pope's  foot,  or  receive  a  certain 
article  of  faith,  or  who  hold  by  an  emperor  duly  elected  and 
well  fulfilling  his  office,  and  do  him  service  as  set  over  them  by 
God,  do  therein  sin  against  the  Church  and  are  heretics.  Cod 
will  not  demand  of  vassals  an  account  of  the  sins  of  their 
lords,  and  neither  should  subjects,  bound  to  obey  the  emperor 
as  the  highest  temporal  power,  be  given  over  to  damnation  as 
though  answerable  for  the  faults  of  their  rulers.  Therefore  all 
who  hold  the  true  Christian  faith,  and  sin  only  against  the 
person  of  the  Pope,  are  no  heretics.  Those,  rather,  are  real 
heretics  who  obstinately  refuse  to  repent  and  forsake  their  sins  ; 
for  let  a  man  have  been  what  he  may,  if  he  will  so  do,  he 
cannot  be  cast  out  of  the  Church.  'I'hrough  Christ,  the  truly 
penitent  thief,  murderer,  traitor,  adulterer,  all  may  have  for- 
giveness. Such  as  God  beholdeth  under  an  unrighteous  bann, 
he  will  turn  for  them  the  curse  into  a  blessing.  Christ  himself 
did  not  resist  the  temporal  power,  but  said,  My  kingdom  is  not 
of  this  world.  Our  souls  belong  unto  God,  our  body  and  goods 
to  Ceesar.  If  the  emperor  sins,  he  must  give  account  to  God 
therefor  -  not  to  a  poor  mortal  man. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  niciincs,  therefore,  which  unto  us  is  lent 

Him  to  behold,  is  on  his  workes  to  looke, 

Which  he  hath  made  in  beautie  excellent, 

And  in  tlie  same,  as  in  a  brasen  booke, 

To  read  eniegistred  in  every  nooke 

Hi,s  goodnesse,  which  his  beautie  doth  declare  ; 

For  all  that's  good  is  beautiful!  and  faire. 

Thence  gathering  plumes  of  perfect  speculation, 

To  impe  the  wings  of  thy  high-flying  mynd. 

Mount  up  aloft  through  heavenly  contemplation. 

From  this  darke  world,  whose  damps  the  soule  do  blynd, 

And,  like  the  native  brood  of  eagles  kynd. 

On  that  bright  Sunne  of  Glorie  hxe  thine  eyes, 

Cleared  from  grosse  mists  of  fraile  infirmities. 

Spenser  :  Hymne  of  Heavenly  Beautie. 

1  ^  HLLOUGHBY.  I  did  not  think  Atherton  had  so  much 
artifice  in  him.  He  broke  off  his  last  reading  from 
Arnstein's  Chronicle  with  a  mystery  unexplained,  quite  in  the 
most  di\iT^xove(\  fi'iiiildon  style. 

GowER.  You  have  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  ladies  most 
painfully,  I  assure  you.  I  believe  I  am  empowered  to  say  ihat 
they  cannot  listen  to  any  more  of  the  armourer's  journal  until 
you  have  accounted  for  Tauler's  singular  disappearance. 

Kate.  One  word  for  us  and  two  for  yourself,  Mr.  Gower, 

Atherton.  Ungrateful  public  !  You  all  know  I  haven't  a 
particle  of  invention  in  my  nature.  It  is  just  because  I  am  not 
a  novelist  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  explain  everything. 
Arnstein  is,  like  me,  a  matter-of-fact  personage,  and  could  not 
be  in  two  places  at  once. 

However,  to  relieve  you,  I  am  ready  to  acknowledge  that  I 
am  in  possession  of  information  about  these   incidents  (juite 


c.  5.]  The  Mysterious  Layman.  239 

independent  of  the  irregular  entries  in  his  record.    There  is  no 
secret ;  it  is  all  matter  of  sober  history.     The  facts  are  these — 

One  day  there  came  a  stranger  to  Tauler,  desiring  to  confess 
to  him.  It  was  the  remarkable  man  who  had  so  attracted  the 
attention  of  Adolf  in  the  church.  He  was  called  Nicholas  of 
Basle,  and  was  well  known  in  the  Oberland  as  an  eminent 
'  Friend  of  God.'  He  was  one  of  those  men  so  characteristic 
of  that  period— a  layman  exercising  a  wider  spiritual  influence 
than  many  a  bishop.  He  was  perhaps  a  AValdensian,  holding 
the  opinions  of  that  sect,  with  a  considerable  infusion  of  vision- 
ary mysticism.  The  Waldenses,  and  the  Friends  of  God,  were 
drawn  nearer  to  each  other  by  opposition,  and  the  disorders  of 
the  time,  as  well  as  by  the  more  liberal  opinions  they  held  in 
common,  and  it  is  not  always  easy  to  distinguish  them. 

After  confession,  the  layman  requested,  much  to  the  Doctor's 
surprise,  that  he  would  preach  a  sermon  on  the  highest  spiritual 
attainment  a  man  may  reach  in  time.  Tauler  yielded  at  length 
to  his  importunity,  and  fulfilled  his  promise.  Nicholas  brought 
his  notes  of  the  sermon  to  Tauler,  and  in  the  course  of  their 
conversation,  disclosed  the  object  of  his  visit.  He  had  travelled 
those  thirty  miles,  he  said,  not  merely  to  listen  to  the  doctor,  of 
whom  he  had  heard  so  much,  but,  by  God's  help,  to  give  him 
some  counsel  that  should  do  him  good.  He  told  him  plainly 
that  the  sermon,  though  excellent  in  its  way,  could  teach  him 
nothing — the  Great  Teacher  could  impart  to  him  more  know- 
ledge in  an  hour  than  Tauler  and  all  his  brethren,  preaching  till 
the  day  of  doom.  Tauler  was  first  astonished,  then  indignant, 
to  hear  a  mere  layman  address  him  in  such  language.  Nicholas 
appealed  to  that  very  anger  as  a  proof  that  the  self-confidence 
of  the  Pharisee  was  not  yet  cleansed  away,  that  the  preacher 
trusted  with  unbecoming  pride  in  his  mastership  and  great 
learning. 

You  must   remember  the  vast   distance  which  at  that  day 


240         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

separated  the  clerk  from  the  layman,  to  give  to  the  candour  and 
humility  of  Tauler  its  due  value.  The  truth  flashed  across  his 
mind.  Deeply  affected,  he  embraced  the  layman,  saying,  '  Thou 
hast  been  the  first  to  tell  me  of  my  fault.  Stay  with  me  here. 
Henceforth  I  will  live  after  thy  counsel ;  thou  shalt  be  my 
spiritual  father,  and  I  thy  sinful  son.' 

Nicholas  acceded  to  his  request,  and  gave  him^  to  begin 
with,  a  kind  of  spiritual  A  B  C, — a  list  of  moral  rules,  com- 
mencing in  succession  with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  which  he 
was  to  commit  to  memory  and  to  practise,  together  with  sundry 
bodily  austerities,  for  five  weeks,  in  honour  of  the  five  wounds 
of  Christ.  But  the  discipline  which  followed  was  yet  more 
severe.  Tauler  was  directed  to  abstain  from  hearing  confession, 
from  study  and  from  preaching,  and  to  shut  himself  up  in  his 
cell,  that,  in  solitary  contemplation  of  the  sufferings  and  death  of 
Christ,  he  might  attain  true  humility  and  complete  renewal. 
The  anticipated  consequences  ensued.  His  friends  and  peni- 
tents forsook  him  ;  he  became  the  by-word  of  the  cloister  ;  his 
painful  penances  brought  on  a  lingering  sickness.  Borne  down 
by  mental  and  bodily  sufferings  together,  he  applied  to  his 
friend  for  relief.  The  layman  told  him  that  he  was  going  on 
well — it  would  be  better  with  him  ere  long — he  might  remit  his 
severer  self-inflictions,  and  should  recruit  the  body  by  a  more 
generous  diet. 

Nicholas  was  now  called  away  by  important  business,  he  said, 
and  Tauler  was  left  to  himself.  His  parting  advice  to  his 
spiritual  scholar  was,  that  if  he  came  to  want,  he  should  pawn 
his  books,  but  sell  them  on  no  account,  for  the  day  would  come 
when  he  would  need  them  once  more. 

Tauler  continued  in  this  trying  seclusion  for  nearly  two  years, 
contemned  by  the  world  without  as  one  beside  himself,  oppressed 
within  by  distress  of  mind  and  feebleness  of  body.  It  had  been 
forbidden  him  to  desire,  even  when   thus    brought  low,  any 


^'■5-]  Spiritual  Desolatioji.  24 1 

special  communication  from  God  that  might  gladden  him  with 
rapture  or  consolation.  Such  a  request  would  spring  from  self 
and  pride.  He  was  there  to  learn  an  utter  self-abandonment— 
lo  submit  himself  without  will  or  choice  to  the  good  pleasure 
of  ( ;od — to  be  tried  with  this  or  any  other  affliction,  if  need 
were,  till  the  judgment  day. 

Now  it  came  to  pass,  when  he  had  become  so  ill  that  he 
could  not  attend  mass  or  take  his  place  in  the  choir  as  he  had 
been  wont,  that,  as  he  lay  on  his  sickbed,  he  meditated  once 
more  on  the  sufferings  and  love  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour,  and 
thought  on  his  own  life,  what  a  poor  thing  it  had  been,  and  how 
ungrateful.  With  that  he  fell  into  a  marvellous  great  sonow, 
says  the  history,  for  all  his  lost  time  and  all  his  sins,  and  spake, 
with  heart  and  mouth,  these  words  : — 

'  O  merciful  God,  have  mercy  upon  me,  a  poor  sinner;  have 
mercy  in  thine  infinite  compassion,  for  I  am  not  worthy  to  live 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.' 

Then  as  he  sat  up  waking  in  his  sickness  and  sorrow,  he 
heard  a  voice  saying,  'Stand  fast  in  thy  peace,  trust  God, 
remember  that  he  was  once  on  the  earth  in  human  nature, 
healing  sick  bodies  and  sick  souls.'  When  he  heard  these  words 
he  fell  back  fainting,  and  knew  no  more.  On  coming  to  him- 
self, he  found  that  both  his  inward  and  outward  powers  had 
received  new  life.  Much  that  had  before  been  strange  now 
seemed  clear.  He  sent  for  his  friend,  who  heard  with  joy  what 
he  had  to  tell. 

'Now,'  said  Nicholas,  'thou  hast  been  for  the  first  time 
moved  by  the  Highest,  and  art  a  partaker  of  the  grace  of  God, 
and  knowest  that  though  the  letter  killeth,  the  Spirit  giveth 
life.  Now  wilt  thou  understand  the  Scripture  as  never  before 
— perceive  its  harmony  and  preciousness,  and  be  well  able  to 
show  thy  fellow  Christians  the  way  to  eternal  life.  Now  one 
of  thy  sermons  will  bring  more  fruit  than  a  hundred  aforetime, 
vor.  I.  R 


242         German  Mysticism  in  the  14^''  Century.        [b.  fi. 

coming,  as  it  will,  from  a  simple,  humbled,  loving  heart ;  and 
much  as  the  people  have  set  thee  at  nought,  they  will  now  far 
more  love  and  prize  thee.  But  a  man  with  treasure  must 
guard  against  the  thieves.  See  to  it  that  thou  hold  fast  thy 
humiUty,  by  which  thou  wilt  best  keep  thy  riches.  Now  thou 
needest  my  teaching  no  longer,  having  found  the  right  Master, 
whose  instrument  I  am,  and  who  sent  me  hither.  Now,  in  all 
godly  love,  thou  shalt  teach  me  in  turn.' 

Tauler  had  pledged  his  books  for  thirty  gulden.  The  layman 
went  immediately  and  redeemed  them  at  his  own  cost,  and  by 
his  advice  Tauler  caused  it  to  be  announced  that  in  three  days 
he  would  preach  once  more.  You  have  already  heard  how  our 
good  friend  Adolf  records  the  unhappy  result  of  this  first  at- 
tempt. Tauler  went  with  his  trouble  to  Nicholas,  who  com- 
forted him  by  the  assurance  that  such  farther  trial  was  but  a 
sign  of  the  careful  love  which  carried  on  the  work  within. 
There  must  have  been  some  remnant  of  self-seeking  whicli  was 
still  to  be  purged  away.  He  advised  him  to  wait  awhile,  and 
then  apply  for  permission  to  deliver  a  Lati^i  address  to  the 
brethren  in  the  school.  This  he  at  last  received,  and  a  better 
sermon  they  never  heard.  So  the  next  preacher,  at  the  close  of 
his  discourse,  made  the  following  announcement  to  the  congre- 
gation :  'I  am  requested  to  give  notice  that  Doctor  Tauler  will 
preach  here  to-morrow.  If  he  succeeds  no  better  than  before, 
the  blame  must  rest  with  himself.  But  this  I  can  say,  that  he 
has  read  us  in  the  school  a  prelection  such  as  we  have  not  heard 
for  many  a  day  •  how  he  will  acquit  himself  now,  I  know  not, 
God  knoweth.' 

Then  followed  the  overpowering  discourse,  of  whose  efiects 
you  have  heard  ;  and  from  this  time  forward  commenced  a  new 
rera  in  Tauler's  public  life.  For  full  eight  years  he  laboured 
unremittingly,  with  an  earnestness  and  a  practical  effect  far  sur- 
passing his  former  eflorts,  and  in  such  esteem  with  all  classes 


c.  5.]  The  Man  and  the  Doctor.  243 

that  his  fellow-citizens  would  seem  to  have  thought  no  step 
should  be  taken  in  spiritual  matters,  scarcely  in  temporal,  with- 
out first  seeking  counsel  of  Tauler. 

LowESTOFFK.  A  most  singular  story.  But  how  have  all 
these  minute  circumstances  come  down  to  us  ? 

Athkrtox.  When  Tauler  was  on  his  death-bed  he  sent  for 
Nicholas,  and  gave  him  a  manuscript,  in  which  he  had  written 
down  their  conversations,  with  some  account  of  his  own  life 
and  God's  dealings  towards  him.  His  unworthy  servant,  re- 
(]uesting  him  to  make  thereof  a  little  book.  The  la3'man  pro- 
mised to  do  so.  '  But  see  to  it,'  continued  the  Doctor,  '  that 
you  can  conceal  our  names.  You  can  easily  write  'The  Man 
and  the  Doctor ' — for  the  life  and  words  and  works  wh.ich  God 
hath  wrought  through  me,  an  unworthy,  sinful  man,  are  not 
mine,  but  belong  unto  Almighty  God  for  ever.  So  let  it  be, 
for  the  edifying  of  our  fellow  n:ien ;  but  take  the  writing  with 
thee  into  thy  country,  and  let  no  man  see  it  while  I  live.' 
This  narrative  has  been  preserved,  and  there  is  no  difficulty  in 
discerning  in  the  Doctor  and  the  man,  Tauler  and  Nicholas  of 
Basle.' 

You  will  now  let  me  resume  my  reading.  I  suppose. 

Chronicle  of  Ado!f  Anisicin,  conlinucd. 

1344.  E'ce  of  St.  Dioiiyshis. — I  here  set  down  passages  from 
sermons  I  have  at  sundry  times  heard  Doctor  I'auler  preach, 
I  have  made  it  my  wont  to  go  straight  Irome  as  soon  as  the 
service  has  been  ended,  and  write  what  I  could  best  remember. 
The  goodly  sayings  which  follow  are  copied  from  those  imperfect 

1  The  substance  of  the  foregoing  account  of  Nicholas  in  his  mono- 
narrative  concerning  Tauler  ancl  the  graph  on  Tauler  (p.  28),  and  a 
laymen  will  be  found  in  the  Lcbcns-  cliaracteristic  letter  by  Nicholas  con- 
hiiforie  dcs  chrxoUrdigcii  Doctors  cerning  visions  of  coming  judgment 
Joh.  Tauler.     See  also  C.  Schmidt's  given  in  the  Appendi.x. 

R  Z 


244         German  Mysticism  in  the  14''''  Century.        [n.  vi. 

records,  and  placed  here  for  my  edification  and  that  of  my 
children  and  others  after  me. 

From  a  sermon  on  Christ's  teaching  the  multitude  out  of  the 
ship. — The  soul  of  the  believing  man,  wherein  Christ  is,  doth 
find  its  representation  in  that  ship.  Speaking  of  the  perpetual 
peace  such  souls  may  have,  despite  what  storm  and  commotion 
soever,  he  added  (not  a  little  to  my  comfort)  :  '  But  some  of 
you  have  not  felt  all  this  ;  be  not  ye  dismayed.  There  arc  poor 
fishers  as  well  as  rich  ;  yea,  more  poor  than  rich.  Hold  this 
as  unchangeably  sure,  that  the  trials  and  struggle  of  no  man 
are  of  small  account.  If  a  man  be  but  in  right  earnest,  longeth 
to  be  a  true  lover  of  God,  and  perseveres  therein,  and  loves 
those  he  knows  or  deems  to  be  such, — doth  heartily  address 
himself  to  live  fairly  after  Job's  pattern,  and  intend  God  un- 
feignedly  in  his  doing  or  not  doing,  such  a  man  will  assuredly 
enter  into  God's  peace,  though  he  should  tarry  for  it  till  his 
dying  day.  Even  those  true  friends  and  lovers  of  God  who 
enjoy  so  glorious  a  peace  have  disquiet  and  trouble  of  their 
own  in  that  they  cannot  be  towards  their  faithful  God  all  they 
would,  and  in  that  even  what  God  giveth  is  less  large  than 
their  desires.' 

'  In  the  highest  stage  of  divine  comfort  is  that  peace  which 
is  said  to  pass  all  understanding.  When  that  noblest  part  of 
the  soul  to  which  no  name  can  be  given  is  completely  turned  to 
God  and  set  on  Him,  it  takes  with  it  all  those  faculties  in  man 
to  which  we  can  give  names.  This  conversion  involves  both 
that  in  God  which  is  Nameless  and  that  in  the  consciousness  of 
man  Avhich  can  be  named.  These  are  they  whom  St.  Dionysius 
calls  godly-minded  men.  As  Paul  saith,  '  That  ye  may  be 
rooted  and  grounded  in  love ;  and  understand  with  all  saints 
what  is  the  breadth,  and  length,  and  height,  and  depth.'  For 
the  height  and  depth  which  are  revealed  in  such  men  can  be 
apprehended  by  no  human  sense  or  reason  ;  they  reach  beyond 


c.  5]  The  Return  of  tJie  Soul  to  God.  245 


all  sense  out  into  a  deep  abyss.  This  great  good,  light,  and 
comfort,  is  inwardly  revealed  only  to  those  who  are  outwardly 
sanctified  and  inwardly  illuminated,  and  who  know  how  to 
dwell  inwardly  within  themselves.  To  such,  heaven  and  earth 
and  all  creatures  are  as  an  absolute  Nothing,  for  they  themselves 
are  a  heaven  of  (jod,  inasmuch  as  God  dwelleth  and  rests  in 
them.' 

'  God  draweth  these  men  in  such  wise  into  Himself,  that 
they  become  altogether  pleasing  unto  Him,  and  all  that  is  in 
them  becomes,  in  a  super-essential  way,  so  pervaded  and  trans- 
formed, that  God  himself  doeth  and  worketh  all  their  works. 
Wherefore,  clearly,  such  persons  are  called  with  right — Godlike 
{Gottformige).  For  if  we  could  see  such  minds  as  they  truly 
are,  they  would  appear  to  us  like  God,  being  so,  however,  not 
by  nature,  but  by  grace.  For  God  lives,  forms,  ordaineth,  and 
doeth  in  them  all  his  works,  and  doth  use  Himself  in  them.' 

'  It  fares  with  such  men  as  with  Peter,  when,  at  the  miracu- 
lous draught  of  fishes,  he  exclaimed,  '  Depart  from  me,  for  I  am 
a  sinful  man,  O  Lord  !'  See  !  he  can  find  no  words,  no  way  ot 
utterance,  for  that  within.  So  is  it,  I  say,  with  such  men — ■ 
they  find  themselves  empty  of  fit  words  and  works.  And  that 
is  the  first  mode.  The  other  is  that  they  fall  utterly  into  their 
own  groundless  Nothing  (/;/  ihr  gruiulloses  Nichts),  and  become 
so  small  and  utterly  nothing  in  God  as  quite  to  forget  all  gifts 
they  have  received  before,  and  do,  as  it  were,  pour  themselves 
back  again  absolutely  into  God  (whose  they  properly  are)  as 
though  such  bestowments  had  never  been  theirs.  Yea,  they  are 
withal  as  barely  nothing  as  though  they  had  never  been.  So 
sinks  the  created  Nothing  in  the  Uncreated,  incomprehensibly, 
unspeakably.  Herein  is  true  what  is  said  in  the  Psalter, '  Deep 
calleth  unto  deep.'  For  the  uncreated  Deep  calls  the  created, 
and  these  two  deeps  become  entirely  one.  Then  hath  the 
created  spirit  lost  itself  in  the  spirit  of  Go;l,  yea,  is  drowned  in 


246         German  Mysticism  in  tJte  14     Cciilitry.        [.:.  vi. 

the  bottomless  sea  of  Godhead.  But  how  well  it  is  with  such 
a  man  passeth  all  understanding  to  comprehend.  Such  a  man 
becomes,  thirdly,  essential,  virtuous,  godly ;  in  his  walk,  loving 
and  kindly,  condescending  and  friendly  towards  all  men,  so  that 
no  man  can  detect  in  him  any  fault  or  transgression,  any  vice  or 
crime.  Moreover,  he  is  believing  and  trustful  towards  all  men, 
hath  mercy  and  sympathy  for  every  man  without  distinction; 
is  not  austere  and  stern,  but  friendly,  gentle,  and  good,  and  it  is. 
not  possible  that  such  men  should  ever  be  separated  from  God. 
Unto  such  perfectness  may  all  we  be  graciously  helped  of  God 
our  Saviour,  unto  whom  be  praise  for  ever.     Amen.'  ^ 

'  The  ground  or  centre  of  the  soul  is  so  high  and  glorious  a 
thing,  that  it  cannot  properly  be  named,  even  as  no  adequate 
name  can  be  found  for  the  Infinite  and  Almighty  God.  In  this 
ground  lies  the  image  of  the  Holy  Trinity.  Its  kindred  and 
likeness  with  God  is  such  as  no  tongue  can  utter.  Could  a 
man  perceive  and  realize  how  God  dwelleth  in  this  ground,  such 
knowledge  would  be  straightway  the  blessedness  of  salvation. 
The  apostle  saith,  '  be  renewed  in  the  spirit  of  your  mind 
{Geiiiut/ies).'  When  the  mind  is  rightly  directed,  it  tendeth 
towards  this  ground  whose  image  is  far  beyond  its  powers.  In 
this  mind  we  are  to  be  renewed,  by  a  perpetual  bringing  of  our- 
selves into  this  ground,  truly  loving  and  intending  God  imme- 
diately. This  is  not  impossible  for  the  mind  itself,  though  our 
inferior  powers  are  unequal  to  such  unceasing  union  with  God. 
This  renewal  must  take  place  also  in  the  spirit.  For  God  is  a 
spirit,  and  our  created  spirit  must  be  united  to  and  lost  in  the 
uncreated,  even  as  it  existed  in  God  before  its  creation.  Every 
moment  in  which  the  soul  so  re-enters  into  God,  a  complete 
restoration  takes  place.  If  it  be  done  a  thousand  times  in  a 
day,  there  is,  each  time,  a  true  regeneration  :  as  the  Psalmist 
S3,ith, — '  This  day  have  I  begotten  thee.'     This  is  when  the 

^  See  Note,  p.  25;. 


c.  5.J  Humility.  247 

inmost  of  the  spirit  is  sunk  and  dissolved  in  the  inmost  of  the 
Divine  Nature,  and  thus  new-made  and  transformed.  God 
pours  Himself  out  thus  into  our  spirit,  as  the  sun  rays  forth  its 
natural  light  into  the  air,  and  fills  it  with  sunshine,  so  that  no 
eye  can  tell  the  difference  between  the  sunshine  and  the  air. 
If  the  union  of  the  sun  and  air  cannot  be  distinguished,  how  far 
less  this  divine  union  of  the  created  and  the  uncreated  Spirit  ! 
Our  spirit  is  received  and  utterly  swallowed  up  in  the  abyss 
which  is  its  source.  Then  the  spirit  transcends  itself  and  all  its 
powers,  and  mounts  higher  and  higher  towards  the  Divine 
Dark,  even  as  an  eagle  towards  the  sun.' 

'  Yet  let  no  man  in  his  littleness  and  nothingness  think  of 
himself  to  approach  that  surpassing  darkness, — rather  let  him 
draw  nigh  to  the  darkness  of  his  ignorance  of  God,  let  him 
simply  yield  himself  to  God,  ask  nothing,  desire  nothing,  love 
and  mean  only  God,  yea,  and  such  an  unknown  God.  Let  him 
lovingly  cast  all  his  thoughts  and  cares,  and  his  sins  too,  as  it 
were,  on  that  unknown  Will.  Beyond  this  unknown  will  of 
God  he  must  desire  and  purpose  nothing,  neither  way,  nor  rest, 
nor  work,  neither  this  nor  that,  but  wholly  subject  and  ofter 
himself  up  to  this  unknown  will.  Moreover,  if  a  man,  while 
busy  in  this  lofty  inward  work,  were  called  by  some  duty  in 
the  Providence  of  God  to  cease  therefrom  and  cook  a  broth  for 
some  sick  person,  or  any  other  such  service,  he  should  do  so 
willingly  and  with  great  joy.  This  I  say  that  if  it  happened  to 
me  tliat  I  had  to  lorsake  such  work  and  go  out  to  preach  or 
auglit  else,  I  should  go  cheeriully,  believing  not  only  that  God 
would  be  witli  me,  but  that  He  would  vouchsafe  me  it  may  be 
even  greater  grace  and  blessing  in  that  external  work  undertaken 
out  of  true  love  in  the  service  of  my  neighbour  than  I  sliould 
perhaps  receive  in  my  season  of  loftiest  contemplation.' 

'  The  truly  enlightened  man — alas  !  that  they  should  be  so 
few — scarce  two  or  three  among  a  thousand — sinks  himself  the 


248         Gcnnan  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [i?.  vi. 

deeper  in  his  Ground  the  more  he  recognises  his  honour  and  his 
blessedness,  and  of  all  his  gifts  ascribes  not  even  the  least  unto 
himself.  Our  righteousness  and  holiness,  as  the  prophet  saith,  is 
but  filthiness.  Therefore  must  we  build,  not  on  our  righteous- 
ness, but  on  the  righteousness  of  God,  and  trust,  not  in  our 
own  words,  works,  or  ways,  but  alone  in  God.  May  this  God 
give  us  all  power  and  grace  to  lose  ourselves  wliolly  in  Him, 
that  we  may  be  renewed  in  truth,  and  found  to  His  praise  and 
glory.     Amen.'  * 

Speaking  of  the  publican  in  the  temple,  he  put  up  a  prayer 
that  God  would  give  him  such  an  insigiit  as  that  man  had  into 
his  own  Nothing  and  unworthiness  ; — '  That,'  said  he,  '  is  the 
highest  and  most  profitable  path  a  man  can  tread.  For  that 
way  brings  God  continually  and  immediately  into  man.  AVhere 
God  appears  in  His  mercy,  there  is  He  manifest  also  with  all 
His  nature — with  Himself.'* 

I  understand  the  Doctor  as  teaching  three  states  or  conditions 
wherein  man  may  stand  ;  that  of  nature,  by  the  unaided  light 
of  reason,  which  in  its  inmost  tends  Godward,  did  not  the  flesh 
hinder ;  that  of  grace  ;  and  a  higher  stage  yet,  above  grace, 
where  means  and  medium  are  as  it  were  superseded,  and  God 
works  immediately  within  the  transformed  soul.  For  what 
God  doeth  that  He  is.  Yet  that  in  this  higher  state,  as  in  the 
second,  man  hath  no  merit;  he  is  nothing  and  God  all.  In  the 
course  of  this  same  sermon  he  described  humility  as  indispen- 
sable to  such  perfectness,  since  the  loftiest  trees  send  their  roots 
down  deepest.  He  said  that  we  should  not  distress  ourselves 
if  we  had  not  detailed  to  our  confessor  all  the  short-coming  and 
sin  of  our  hearts,  but  confess  to  God  and  ask  His  mercy.  No 
ecclesiastical  absolution  can  help  us  unless  we  are  contrite  for 
our  sin  before  God.  We  are  not  to  keep  away  from  the  Lord's 
body  because  we  feel  so  deeply  our  unworthiness  to  partake  of 

3  See  first  Note,  p.  256,      ■*  Sernu  on  Eh-vciilh  Sun.  after  Trinity,  ii.  p.  436. 


c.  5]  True  Love  to  God.  249 


the  sacrament,  seeing  that  they  who  are  whole  need  not  a 
physician,  but  they  that  are  sick." 

'  There  are  some  who  can  talk  much  and  eloquently  of  the 
incarnation  and  bitter  sufferings  ot'  Christ,  who  do  with  tears 
apostrophise  him  from  head  to  foot  as  they  present  hinr  to  their 
imagination.  Yet  is  there  often  in  this  more  of  sense  and  self- 
jjleasing  than  of  true  love  to  God.  They  look  more  to  the 
means  than  to  the  end.  For  my  part,  I  would  rather  there 
were  less  of  such  excitement  and  transport,  less  of  mere  sweet 
emotion,  so  that  a  man  were  diligent  and  right  manful  in  work- 
ing and  in  virtue,  for  in  such  exercise  do  we  learn  best  to  know 
ourselves.  These  raptures  are  not  the  highest  order  of  devotion, 
though  would  that  many  a  dull  heart  had  more  of  such  sensi- 
bility !  There  are,  as  St.  Bernard  hath  said,  three  kinds  of 
love,  the  sweet,  the  wise,  and  the  strong.  The  first  is  as  a 
gilded  image  of  wood,  the  second  as  a  gilded  image  of  silver,  the 
third  an  image  of  pure  gold.  One  to  whom  God  hath  vouch- 
safed such  sweetness  should  receive  it  with  lowliness  and  thank- 
fulness, discerning  therein  his  weakness  and  imperfection,  in 
that  God  has  to  allure  and  entice  him  as  a  little  child.  He 
should  not  rest  at  this  point,  but  press  on,  through  images, 
above  all  image  and  figure ;  through  the  outward  exercise  of 
the  senses  to  the  inward  ground  of  his  soul,  where  properly  the 
kingdom  of  God  is.  There  are  many  altogether  at  home  amid 
sensuous  imagery,  and  having  great  joy  therein,  whose  inner 
ground  is  as  fast  shut  to  them  as  a  mountain  of  iron  througli 
which  there  is  no  way.' 

'  Dionysius  writeth  how  God  doth  far  and  superessentially 
surpass  all  images,  modes,  forms,  or  names  that  can  be  applied 
to  Him.  The  true  fulness  of  divine  enlightenment  is  known 
herein  that  it  is  an  essential  illumination,  not  taking  place  by 

»  Scrm.     on    Eleventh    Sun.    aflcr      d/^len,   vol.   iii.    p.    19,  aiid   Schmidt, 
Trhi.   :i.   pp.    44a,    443.      .Also,    Pre-      p.  125. 


2  50        German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Ccjitury.        [n.  vi. 

means  of  images  or  in  the  powers  of  tlie  soul,  but  rather  in  the 
ground  itself  of  the  soul,  when  a  man  is  utterly  sunk  in  his  own 
Nothing.  This  I  say  against  the  '  free  spirits,'  who  persuade 
themselves  that  by  means  of  certain  appearances  and  glances  of 
revelation  they  have  discerned  the  truth,  and  please  themselves 
with  their  own  exaltation,  knowledge,  and  wisdom  ;  going  about 
in  a  false  emptiness  {Ledigkeit)  of  their  own  ;  and  speaking 
to  others  as  though  they  were  not  yet  advanced  beyond  the  use 
of  forms  and  images  ;  bringing,  with  their  frivolous  presump- 
tion, no  small  dishonour  upon  God.  But  know  ye,  Christians 
beloved,  that  no  truly  pious  and  God-fearing  man  gives  himself 
out  as  having  risen  above  all  things,  for  things  in  themselves 
utterly  insignificant  and  mean  are  yet,  in  the  truth,  right  and 
good ;  and  though  any  one  may  be  in  reality  elevated  above 
such  lesser  matters,  yet  doth  he  love  and  honour  them  not  less 
than  heretofore;  for  the  truly  pious  account  themselves  less 
tlian  all  things,  and  boast  not  that  they  have  surpassed  or  are 
lifted  above  thern." 

'  O,  dear  child,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  enmities  and  dangers, 
sink  thou  into  thy  ground  and  thy  Nothingness,  and  let  the 
tower  with  all  its  bells  fall  on  thee,  yea,  let  all  the  devils  in  hell 
storm  out  upon  thee,  let  heaven  and  earth  with  all  their  crea- 
tures assail  thee,  all  shall  but  marvellously  serve  thee— sink 
tliou  only  into  thy  Nothingness,  and  the  better  part  is  thine  !' ' 

'  Yet  some  will  ask  what  remains  after  a  man  hath  thus  lost 
himself  in  God  ?  I  answer,  nothing  but  a  fathomless  annihila- 
tion of  himself,  an  absolute  ignoring  of  all  reference  to  himself 
personally,  of  all  aims  of  his  own  in  will  and  heart,  in  way,  in 
purpose,  or  in  use.  For  in  this  self-loss  man  sinks  so  deep 
into  the  ground  that  if  he  could,  out  of  pure  love  and  lowliness, 
sink  himself  deeper  yet,  and  become  absolutely  nothing,  he 

•^  Third  Serm.  on  Thirteenth  Sun.  ''  First  Scnn.  on    Thirteenth  Sun. 

nfter  Trin.,  ii.  pp,  474-478.  aj\er  Trin.,  ii.  p.  459. 


c.  5]  Grand  Doctrine.  251 

woukl  do  so  right  gladly.  For  such  a  self-annihilation  hath 
been  brought  to  pass  within  him  that  he  thinketh  himself  un- 
worthy to  be  a  man,  unfit  to  enter  God's  house  and  temple,  and 
to  look  upon  a  crucifix  painted  on  the  wall ;  yea,  such  a  man 
deemeth  himself  not  so  good  by  far  as  the  very  worst.  Never- 
theless, as  far  as  regards  the  sufferings  and  death  of  the  Lord 
— the  birth  and  incarnation  of  the  Son  of  God — His  holy  and 
perfect  life  that  He  lived  on  earth  among  sinful  men,  all  this 
such  a  man  did  never  before  so  heartily  and  strongly  love  as 
now  lie  doth  ;  yea,  now  his  care  is  how  he  may  order  his  life 
right  Christianly,  and  fashion  it  anew,  and  out  of  fervent  love 
toward  his  Lord  and  Saviour,  exercise  himself  without  ceasing 
in  all  good  work  and  virtue.'^ 

'  There  are  those  who  thoughtlessly  maim  and  torture  their 
miserable  flesh,  and  yet  leave  untouched  the  inclinations  which 
are  the  root  of  evil  in  their  hearts.  Ah,  my  friend,  what  hath 
thy  poor  body  done  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  so  torment  it  ? 
Oh  folly  !  mortify  and  slay  thy  sins,  not  thine  own  flesh  and 
blood.' ' 

WiLLOUGHBY.  My  dear  Atherton,  this  is  grand  doctrine. 
May  I  never  be  farther  from  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  such 
a  mystic.  Surely  Luther's  praise  is  just.  Compare  such  theo- 
logy as  this  with  the  common  creed  and  j^ractice  of  that  day. 
The  faults  are  nearly  all  those  of  the  time — the  excellence 
his  own. 

Atherton.  It  is  wonderful  to  see  how  little  harm  his  Pla- 
tonism  can  do  to  a  man  so  profoundly  reverent,  so  fervent  in 
his  love  to  Christ.  How  often  he  seems  to  tread  the  verge  of 
Eckart's  pantheistic  abyss,  but  never  falls  into  it!  His  heart  is 
true ;  he  walks  uprightly,  and  so,  surely.  That  conception  of 
sin  as  selfishness — that  doctrine  of  self-abandonment,  death  in 

*  See  second  Note,  p.  256.  »  Tii.<enty-first  Sun.  after  Triii.,  ii.  p.  584. 


252         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'''''  Century.        [b.  vl 

ourselves  and  life  in  God— these  are  convictions  with  him  so 
deep  and  blessed — so  far  beyond  all  Greek  philosophy — so  fatal 
to  the  intellectual  arrogance  of  pantheism,  that  they  bear  him 
safe  through  every  peril. 

GowER.  His  sermons  cannot  fail  to  do  one  good — read  with 
the  heart  and  imagination.  But  if  you  coldly  criticise,  and  can 
make  no  allowance  for  the  allegories  and  metaphors  and  vehe- 
ment language  of  the  mystic,  you  may  shut  the  book  at  once. 

Atherton.  And  shut  out  blessing  from  your  soul.  It  is 
not  difficult  to  see,  however,  where  Tauler's  danger  lies.  There 
is  an  excess  of  negation  in  his  divinity.  He  will  ignore,  deny, 
annihilate  almost  everything  you  can  name, — bid  you  be  know- 
ledgeless,  desireless,  motionless, — will  enjoin  submission  to  the 
imknown  God  (when  it  is  our  triumph  in  Christ  that  we  submit 
to  the  Revealed  and  Known) — and,  in  short,  leaves  scarcely 
anything  positive  save  the  mysterious  lapse  of  the  soul's 
Ground,  or  Spark,  into  the  Perfect,  the  Essential  One.  He 
seems  sometimes  to  make  our  very  personality  a  sin,  as  though 
the  limitations  of  our  finite  being  were  an  element  in  our  guilt. 
The  separation  of  a  particular  faculty  or  higher  power  of  the 
soul  which  unites  with  God,  while  the  inferior  powers  are  either 
absorbed  or  occupied  in  the  lower  sphere,  this  is  the  great 
metaphysical  mistake  which  lies  at  the  root  of  so  many  forms 
of  mysticism.  With  Tauler  the  work  of  grace  consists  too  much 
of  extremes — it  dehumanizes  in  order  to  deify. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  that,  remember,  is  no  fault  of  Tauler's 
especially.  He  does  but  follow  here  the  ascetic,  superhuman 
aspiration  of  a  Church  which,  trying  to  raise  some  above 
humanity,  sinks  myriads  below  it. 

Atherton.  Granted.  That  error  does  not  lessen  my  love 
and  admiration  for  the  man. 

Gower.  Your  extracts  show,  too,  that  tlie  Nothingness 
towards  which  he  calls  men  to  strive  is  no  indolent  Quietism, 


c.  5-]  Taitlc/s  Doctrine — its  Excellence.  253 

nor,  as  with  Eckart,  a  kind  of  metaphysical  postulate,  but  in 
fact  a  profound  spiritual  self-abasement  and  the  daily  working 
out  of  a  self-sacrificing  Christ-like  character. 

Athk.rton.  Blessed  are  his  contradictions  and  inconsis- 
tencies !  Logic  cannot  always  reconcile  Tauler  with  himself — 
our  hearts  do.'" 

WiLLOUGHBV.  Never  surely  was  a  theory  so  negative  com- 
bined with  an  action  more  fervently  intense — a  positiveness 
more  benign. 

GowER.  In  his  life  we  understand  him, — that  is  at  once  the 
explanation  and  vindication  of  what  his  mysticism  means. 

Athertox.  Few,  however,  of  his  fellow-mystics  rose,  so  far 
as  Tauler,  above  the  peculiar  dangers  of  mysticism.  Even  the 
good  layman,  Nicholas  of  Basle,  was  a  man  of  vision,  and 
assumed  a  kind  ot  prophecy.  Tauler  and  the  Theologia  Ger- 
iiianica  stand  almost  alone  in  rejecting  the  sensuous  element  of 
mysticism — its  apparitions,  its  voices,  its  celestial  phantasma- 
goria. With  many  of  his  friends  mysticism  became  secluded, 
effeminate,  visionary,  because  uncorrected,  as  in  his  case,  by 
benevolent  action,  by  devoted  conflict  against  priestly  wrong. 

Kate.  Tauler,  then,  was  a  Protestant  in  spirit — a  genuine 
forerunner  of  the  Reformation  ? 

Atherton.  Unquestionably. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  But  what  could  the  common  people  make 
of  this  high  ideal  he  sets  before  them  ?  Could  they  be  brought 
heartily  to  care  about  that  kind  of  ultra-human  perfectness  ? 
Beautiful  it  must  have  been  to  hear  this  eloquent  man  describe 
the  divine  passion  of  the  soul,  how — 

Ivove  took  up  tlie  liar])  of  life  and  smote  on  all  tlie  chords  with  might, 
bmote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pabsed  in  music  out  of  sijjlit, 

— but  bewildering,  rather  ? 

1"  See  Note,  p.  257. 


2  54        Gcnnan  Mysticism  in  the  iaJ^  Century.        [b.  v!. 

Atherton.  I  am  afraid  so.  Yet  there  was  much  they 
evidently  did  understand  and  relish. 

GowER.  In  fact  the  Reformers  were  wanted,  with  their 
Bible,  with  their  simpler,  homelier  teaching — so  much  less 
ascetic,  so  much  more  human — and  with  their  written  word, 
interpreted  more  soundly  ;  coming,  not  to  extinguish  that  inner 
liglit,  but  to  enclose,  as  in  a  glass,  the  precious  flame,  otherwise 
fitfully  blown  about  by  the  gusts  of  circumstance  and  feeling. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  nonc  the  less  let  us  praise  the  man  who 
lived  so  nobly  by  the  light  he  had — who  made  human  works 
as  nothing,  that  God  miglit  be  all— who  took  the  heavenly 
kingdom  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  and  proclaimed  it  in  the 
heart  of  every  spiritual  worshipper. 

GowER.  Though  Tauler  adopts  at  times  the  language  of 
Eckart,  no  one  can  fail  to  discern  a  very  different  spirit.  How 
much  more  profound  his  apprehension  of  sin — his  sense  of 
need ;  how  much  more  prominent  Christ,  rescuing  and  purify- 
ing the  stricken  soul.  Tauler  lays  man  in  the  dust,  and  keeps 
him  there.  Eckart  suffers  him  to  expand  from  Nothing  to 
Infinity.  Summarily,  I  would  put  the  difference  thus  : — With 
Eckart  the  language  of  Christianity  becomes  the  metaphorical 
expression  for  pantheism  ;  with  Tauler,  phraseology  approach- 
ing pantheism  is  the  metaphorical  expression  of  a  most  tmly 
Christian  conviction.  If  the  former  sins  even  more  in  the 
spirit  than  in  the  letter,  in  the  case  of  the  latter  the  sins  of 
the  letter  are  redeemed  by  the  excellence  of  the  spirit. 


Note  to  page  246. 

The  passages  in  the  text  are  from  the  second  Sermon  on  Fifth  Sunday  after 
Trinity,  Predigten,  ii.  pp.  353,  &c.  The  spiritual  coniiict  and  desolation  which  had 
shalven  Tauler's  nature  to  its  depths  bears  fruit  in  this  profound  luimility.  Self- 
abasement  is  the  cardinal  doctrine  of  all  his  sermons  ;  his  lowliness  of  spirit  the 
safeguard  of  his  theology  from  all  dangerous  error.  'I'he  troubles  through  which 
he  and  Suso  were  made  to  pass,  gave  them  an  antidote  to  the  poison  of  the 
current  ecclesiastical  doctrine.     Consciences  so  stirred  were  not  to  be  cast  into 


c.  5.]        Gerinan  Mysticism  in  the  14.^^'  Century. 


-33 


a  sleep  by  the  mesmeric  passes  of  a  priestly  hand.  He  only  who  had  hurt 
could  heal  ;  they  fled  from  man  to  God — from  means  to  the  End,  and  so,  like 
the  patriarch,  their  eye  saw  God,  and  they  repented  and  abhorred  themselves  as 
in  dust  and  ashes,  Never  after  that  could  they  believe  in  salvation  by  works, 
and  so  they  became  aliens  from  the  spirit  of  that  Church  whose  pale  retained 
them  to  the  last. 

Tauler  and  his  brethren  will  '  escape  distindion  ;' — not  that  which  is  between 
creature  and  Creator,  or  between  good  and  evil — that  rather  which  the  Pharisee 
makes  when  he  says,  '  I  am  holier  than  thou. '  It  is  their  very  anxiety  to  escape 
all  assumption  of  merit  which  partly  vitiates  the  letter  of  their  theology,  and 
makes  them  speak  as  though  grace  substituted  God  for  man  within  the  renewed 
nature.  They  will  escape  the  dry  and  fruitless  distinctions  of  the  schoolman. 
They  will  escape  the  distinction  which  selfisli  comfort- worshippers  make  so 
broad  between  ease  and  hardship.  Sorrow  and  joy,  pain  and  pleasure,  are 
trustfully  accepted  as  alike  coming  from  the  hand  of  love.  i 

Even  when  Tauler  speaks  of  self-surrender  to  an  '  7ink>imvii'^"\\\,'  we  must 
not  press  his  words  loo  far.  It  is  very  evident  that  he  who  reaches  this  coveted 
abandonment  is  not  supposed  to  have  forgotten  that  gracious  character  under 
which  God  has  made  Himself  known — of  which  Christ  is  the  manifestation. 
In  casting  his  care  on  an  unknown  Will,  Tauler  acts  on  the  conviction  that  lie 
is  cared  for, — this  fact  he  knows  ;  but  precisely  what  that  care  may  deem  best 
for  him  he  doe5  not  know.  He  surrenders,  in  true  self-distrust,  his  personal 
notion  of  what  may  be  the  Divine  good  pleasure  in  any  particular  case.  Few 
lessons  were  more  needed  than  this  in  Tauler's  day,  when  superstition  found 
signs  and  \\onder3  everywhere,  and  fanaticism  so  recklessly  identified  human 
wrath  and  Divine  righteousness. 

Tauler's  '  state  above  grace,'  and  'transformed  condition  of  the  soul,  in  which 
God  worketh  all  its  works,'  are  perhaps  little  more  than  injudicious  expressions 
foi  that  more  spontaneous  and  habitual  piety  characteristic  of  the  established 
Christian  life, — that  religion  which  consists  so  much  more  in  a  pervading  spirit 
of  devotion  than  in  professed  and  special  religious  acts.  He  certainly  inculcates 
no  proud  and  self-complacent  rejection  and  depreciation  of  any  means.  Rather 
would  the  man  who  learnt  Tauler's  doctrine  well  tind  all  persons,  objects,  and 
circumstances,  made  more  or  less  '  means  of  grace'  to  him.  In  a  landscape  or 
a  fever,  an  enemy  or  an  accident,  his  soul  would  find  discipline  and  blessing. 
and  not  in  mass  and  penance  and  paternoster  merely  ; — for  is  not  God  in  all 
things  near  us,  and  willing  to  make  everything  minister  to  our  spiricual  growth  ? 
Such  teaching  was  truly  reformatory,  antagonistic  as  it  was  to  that  excessi\-e 
value  almost  everywhere  attached  in  those  days  to  works  and  sacraments. 

So  again  with  Tauler's  exhortation  to  rise  above  symbol,  image,  or  figure. 
He  carries  it  too  far,  indeed.  Such  asceticism  of  the  soul  is  too  severe  a  strain 
for  ordinary  humanity.  It  is  unknown  to  His  teaching,  who  spake  as  never  man 
spake.  Yet  there  lay  in  it  a  most  wholesome  protest  against  religious  senti- 
mentalism,  visionary  extravagance,  hysterical  inoperative  emotions, — against 
the  fanciful  prettinesses  of  superstitious  ritual  and  routine. 

Tauler's  'Nothing,'  or  'Ground'  of  the  soul,  may  be  metaphysically  a 
fiction — religiously  it  indicates  the  sole  seat  of  inward  peace.  Only  as  we  put  no 
trust  in  things  earthly, — only  as  amidst  our  most  strenuous  action  the  heart  saith 
ever,  'Thy  will  be  done,'— only  as  we  strive  to  reduce  our  feverish  hopes  and 
fears  about  temporal  enjoyment  as  nearly  as  we  can  to  Nothing, — are  we  calm 
and  brave,  whatever  may  befal.  This  loving  repose  of  Faith  is  Eternal  Life, 
as  sin  IS  so  much  present  death; — it  is  a  life  lived,  in  harmony  with  the  ever- 
lasting, above  the  restlessness  of  time  ; — it  is  (in  Eckart's  phrase,  though  not 
in  Eckart's  sense)  a  union  with  the  Allmoving  Immobility — the  divine  serenity 
of  Love  Omnipotent,  guiding  and  upholding  all  without  an  effort. 


256         Geyvian  Mysticism  in  the  i^^''  Ccniiuy.       [n.  vi. 

Note  to  page  248. 

The  above  is  from  the  Sermon  on  the  Nineteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity,  ii. 
p.  546.  He  says  in  this  discourse  that  the  soul  has  various  names,  according  to 
the  different  operations  and  attributes  belonging  to  it.  It  is  called  Anima,  or 
soul  ;  Spirit  ;  and  Disposition  (gemiit/i),  a  marvellous  and  very  lovely  thing 
— for  the  memory,  the  understanding,  and  the  will  of  man  are  all  collected 
therein.  The  Disposition  hath  an  object nm  above  the  other  powers,  and  as 
it  follows  or  forsakes  that  aim  so  is  it  well  or  ill  with  the  rest  of  man's 
nature.  Fourthly,  the  soul  is  called  mens  or  mensch  [man),  and  that  is  the 
ground  which  is  nameless,  and  wherein  dwells  hidden  the  true  image  of  the 
Holy  Trinity.  (Compare  Tliird  Serm.  on  Third  Sunday  afterTrin.,  ii.  p.  305, 
and  Serm.  on  Eleventh  Sunday  after  Trin.,  ii.  p.  435.)  By  the  synteresis,  or 
synderesis,  Tauler  appears  to  mean  the  native  tendency  of  the  soul  to.vards 
God.  With  Tauler  and  the  mystics  generally  this  tendency  is  an  original 
capacity  for  knowing  God  immediately.  The  term  is  not  peculiar  to  the 
mystics,  but  it  bears  in  their  writings  a  signification  which  non-mystical 
theologians  refuse  to  admit.  The  distinction  usually  made  between  crvi/T^pTitris 
and  (Tui'ecSijo-is  is  simply  this:  the  former  expresses  that  constitution  of  our  nature 
whereby  we  assent  at  once  to  the  axioms  of  morality,  while  the  latter  denotes 
that  judgment  which  man  passes  on  himself  in  conformity  with  such  constitution 
of  his  moral  nature.  The  second  is  related  to  the  first  somewhat  as  recollection 
is  to  memory. 

On  this  divine  centre  or  substratum  of  the  soul  rests  the  fundamental  doctrine 
of  these  mystics.  So  Hermann  of  Fritslar  says,  speaking  of — di  kraft  in  der  sele 
di  her  heizit  sinderisis.  In  dirre  kraft  mac  inkein  kreature  wirken  noch  inkein 
kreattirlich  bilde,  sunder  got  der  wirket  dar  in  ane  mittel  und  ane  underlaz. 
Heiligenlcben,  p.  187.  Thus,  he  says  elsewhere,  that  the  masters  speak  of  two 
faces  of  the  soul,  the  one  turned  toward  this  world,  the  other  immediately  to 
God.  In  the  latter  God  doth  flow  and  shine  eternally,  whether  man  knoweth  it 
or  not.  It  is,  therefore,  according  to  man's  nature  as  possessed  of  this  divine 
ground,  to  seek  God,  his  original  ;  it  must  be  so  for  ever,  and  even  in  hell  the 
suffering  there  has  its  source  in  the  hopeless  contradiction  of  this  indestructible 
tendency. 

Note  to  page  251. 

This  passage  is  from  the  Third  Serm.  on  Thirteenth  Sun.  afterTrin.,  ii.  p.  480. 
The  same  remarkable  combination  of  inward  aspiration  and  outward  love  and 
service  is  urged  with  much  force  and  beauty  in  the  Sermon  on  Fifth  Suttday  after 
Trinity,  and  in  that  on  the  Sixteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity,  ii.  p.  512. 

Tauler  speaks  of  this  Ground  of  the  soul  as  that  which  is  inseparable  from  the 
Divine  nature,  and  wherein  man  hath  by  Grace  what  God  is  by  nature.  Pre- 
dii^ten,  ii.  p.  199.  He  quotes  Proclus  as  saying  that,  while  man  is  busied  with 
images,  which  are  beneath  us,  and  clings  to  such,  he  cannot  possibly  return  into 
Lis  Ground  or  Essence.  '  If  thou  wilt  know  by  experience  that  such  a  Ground 
truly  is,  thou  must  forsake  all  the  manifold  and  gaze  thereon  with  thine  intel- 
lectual eye  alone.  But  wouldst  thou  come  nearer  yet,  turn  thine  intellectual 
eyesight  therefrom — for  even  the  intellect  is  beneath  thee— and  become  one  with 
the  One— that  is,  unite  thyself  with  Unity.'  This  unity  Proclus  calls  the  '  calm, 
silent,  slumbering,  and  incomprehensible  divine  Darkness.'  '  To  think,  beloved 
in  the  Lord,  that  a  heathen  should  understand  so  much  and  go  so  far,  and  we  be 
so  behind,  may  well  make  us  blush  for  shame.  To  this  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
testifies  when  he  says  the  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you.  That  is,  this  kingdom 
is  born  in  the  inmost  Ground  of  all,  apart  from  all  tiiat  the  powers  of  the  mind 
can  accomplish In  this  Ground  the  eternal  heavenly  Father  doth  brint; 


c.  5.]         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4     Century.        25/ 

forth  his  only-begotten  Son,  a  hundred  thousand  times  quicker  than  an  instant, 
according  to  our  apprehension, — ever  anew  in  the  light  of  Eternity,  in  the  glory 
and  unutterable  brightness  of  his  own  Self.  He  who  would  experience  this 
must  turn  himself  inward  far  away  from  all  working  of  his  outward  and  inward 
powers  and  imaginations— from  all  that  ever  cometh  from  without,  and  then 
sink  and  dissolve  himself  in  the  Ground.  Then  cometh  the  power  of  the  Father, 
and  calls  the  man  into  Himself  through  his  only-begotten  Son  ;  and  so  the  Son 
is  born  out  of  the  Father  and  returneth  unto  the  Father,  and  such  a  man  is  born 
in  the  Son  of  the  Father,  and  floweth  back  with  the  Son  into  the  Father  again, 
and  becomes  one  with  them'  (p.  203,  and  Schmidt,  p.  127).  Yet,  with  all  this, 
Tauler  sincerely  repudiates  any  pantheistic  confusion  of  the  Divine  and  human, 
and  is  always  careful  to  state  that  this  highest  attainment — the  vanishing  point 
of  Humanity,  is  the  work  of  Grace.  Some  of  his  e.xpressions  in  describing  this 
union  are  almost  as  strong  as  those  of  Eckart  {Third  Serm.  oti  Third  Sun. 
after  Trin.  ii.  p.  310),  but  his  general  tone  far  more  lowly,  practical,  and  true. 

Note  to  page  253. 

We  best  ascertain  the  true  meaning  of  Tauler's  mystical  phraseology,  and 
discover  the  point  at  which  he  was  desirous  that  mysticism  should  arrest  its  llight, 
by  listening  to  the  rebukes  he  administers  to  the  unrighteous,  pantheistic,  or 
fantastical  mystics  of  the  da)'.  A  sermon  of  his  on  Psalm  .xci.  5  {Pred.  vol.  i.  p. 
228)  is  of  great  importance  in  this  respect. 

Speaking  of  such  as  embrace  a  religious  life,  without  any  true  vocation,  he 
points  out  how,  as  they  follow  only  their  own  inclinations,  they  naturally  desire 
rest,  but  are  satisfied  with  a  merely  natural  inaction  instead  of  that  spiritual  calm 
which  is  the  gift  of  God.  Consequently,  while  the  devout  mind  (as  Gregory 
saitii)  cannot  tolerate  self-seeking,  or  be  content  with  any  such  mere  negation, 
these  men  profess  to  have  attained  the  elevation  of  true  peace  while  they  have 
done  nothing  more  than  abstain  from  all  imagination  and  action.  Any  man, 
remarks  Tauler,  very  sensibly,  may  do  this,  without  any  especial  grace  from 
God.  Such  persons  live  in  indolence,  become  self-complacent  and  full  of  pride. 
True  love  ever  longs  to  love  more  ;  the  more  of  God  it  hath  the  more  it  covets. 
God  is  never  to  be  found  in  the  pretended  quiet  of  such  men,  wliich  any  Turk 
or  heathen  could  find  in  the  same  way,  as  easily  as  they.  They  are  persuaded 
by  the  devil  that  devout  exercises  and  works  of  charity  will  only  disturb  their 
inward  quiet,  and  do,  in  fact,  disobey  and  resist  God  in  their  self-satisfied 
delusion. 

He  next  exposes  the  error  of  those  who  undergo  great  austerities  to  be  thought 
holy, — suffering  for  their  own  glory  rather  than  that  of  God  ;  and  who  think 
their  penance  and  their  works  give  them  an  extraordinary  claim  on  the  Most 
High.  He  shows  how  often  they  fall  into  temptation  by  their  wayward  and 
passionate  desire  after  special  spiritual  manifestations,  and  by  their  clamorous 
importunity  for  particular  bt:stowments  on  which  their  unmortified  self-will  has 
been  obstmately  set.  Divine  love,  he  says,  offers  itself  up  without  reserve  to  God 
— seeks  His  glory  alone,  and  can  be  satisfied  with  nothing  short  of  God  Him 
self.  Natural  love  seeks  itself  in  all  things,  and  falls  ere  long,  as  Adam  did, 
into  mortal  sin — ^into  licence,  pride,  and  covetousness. 

Then  he  proceeds  to  describe  an  error,  'yet  more  dangerous  than  this,'  as 
follows: — 'Tiiose  who  compose  this  class  call  themselves  God-seeing  {Gotl 
schaucnde)  men.  You  may  know  them  by  the  natural  rest  they  profess  to  ex- 
perience, for  they  imagine  themselves  free  from  sin  and  immediately  united  to 
God.  They  fancy  themselves  free  from  any  obligation  to  obey  either  di\ine  or 
human  laws,  and  that  they  need  no  longer  be  diligent  in  good  works.  They 
believe  the  quiet  to  which  they  have  devoted  themselves  so  lofty  and  glorious  a 

VOL.  I.  S 


2  5  S        German  Mysticism  iti  the  1 4     Century.       [b.  vi 

thing  that  they  cannot,  without  sin,  suffer  themselves  to  be  hindered  or  disturbed 
therein.  Therefore  will  they  be  subject  to  no  man — will  work  not  at  all,  either 
inwardly  or  outwardly,  but  lie  like  an  idle  tool  awaiting  its  master's  hand.  They 
think,  if  they  were  to  work,  God's  operation  within  them  would  be  hindered  ;  so 
Ihey  sit  inactive,  and  exercise  themselves  in  no  good  work  or  virtue.  In  short, 
they  are  resolved  to  be  so  absolutely  empty  and  idle  that  they  will  not  so  much 
as  praise  and  thank  God — will  not  desire  or  pray  for  anything — will  not  know 
or  learn  anything.  All  such  things  they  hold  to  be  mischievous — persuade  them- 
selves that  they  possess  already  all  that  can  be  requested,  and  that  they  have 
the  true  spiritual  poverty  because,  as  they  flatter  themselves,  they  live  without 
any  will  of  their  own,  and  have  abandoned  all  choice.  As  to  the  laws  and  or- 
dinances of  the  Church,  they  believe  that  they  have  not  only  fulfilled  them,  but 
have  advanced  far  beyond  that  state  for  which  such  institutions  were  designed. 
Neither  God  nor  man  (they  say)  can  give  or  take  from  them  aught,  because  they 
suffered  all  that  was  to  be  suffered  till  they  passed  beyond  the  stage  of  trial 
and  virtue,  and  finally  attained  this  absolute  Quiet  wherein  they  now  abide. 
For  they  declare  expressly  that  the  great  difficulty  is  not  so  much  to  attain 
to  virtue  as  to  overcome  or  surpass  it,  and  to  arrive  at  the  said  Quiet  and 
absolute  emptiness  of  all  virtue.  Accordingly  they  will  be  completely  free  and 
submit  to  no  man, — not  to  pope  or  bishops,  or  to  the  priests  and  teachers  set 
over  them  ;  and  if  they  sometimes  profess  to  obey,  tliey  do  not  in  reality  yield 
any  obedience  either  in  spirit  or  in  practice.  And  just  as  tbey  say  they  will  be 
free  from  all  laws  and  ordinances  of  the  Holy  Church,  so  they  affirm,  without  a 
blush,  that  as  long  as  a  man  is  diligently  striving  to  attam  unto  the  Christian  vir- 
tues he  is  not  yet  properly  perfect,  and  knows  not  yet  what  spiritual  poverty  and 
spiritual  freedom  or  emptiness  really  are.  Moreover,  they  believe  that  they  are 
exalted  above  the  merits  of  all  men  and  angels  ;  that  they  can  neither  add  to 
their  virtues  nor  be  guilty  of  any  fault  or  sin,  because  (as  they  fancy)  they  live 
without  will,  have  brought  their  spirit  into  Quiet  and  Emptiness,  are  in  them- 
selves nothing,  and  veritably  united  unto  God.  They  believe,  likewise,  madly 
enough,  that  they  may  fulfil  all  the  desires  of  their  nature  without  any  sin,  be- 
cause, forsooth,  they  have  arrived  at  perfect  innocence,  and  for  them  there  is  no 
law.  In  short,  that  the  Quiet  and  freedom  of  their  spirit  may  not  be  hindered, 
they  do  whatsoever  they  list.  They  care  not  a  whit  for  fasts,  festivals,  or  ordi- 
nances, but  what  they  do  is  done  on  account  of  others,  they  themselves  having 
no  conscience  about  any  such  matters.' 

A  fourth  class  brought  under  review  are  less  arrogant  than  these  enthusiasts, 
and  will  admit  that  they  may  progress  in  grace.  They  are  '  God-suffering 
[GoKcsleidcitde]  men' — in  fact,  mystics  of  the  intransitive  theopathetic  species 
par  excellence.  Their  relation  toward  God  is  to  be  one  of  complete  passivity, 
and  all  their  doings  (of  whatever  character)  are  His  work.  Tauler  acknowledges 
duly  the  humility  and  patient  endurance  of  these  men.  Their  fault  lies,  he  says, 
in  their  belief  that  every  inward  inclination  they  feel  is  the  movement  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  and  this  even  when  such  inclinations  are  sinful,  '  whereas  the  Holy  Spirit 
worketh  in  no  man  that  which  is  useless  or  contrary  to  the  life  of  Christ  and 
Holy  Scriptures."  In  their  constancy  as  well  as  in  their  doctrine  they  nearly 
resemble  the  early  Quakers.  They  would  sooner  die,  says  Tauler,  than  swerve  a 
hair's  breadth  from  their  opinion  or  their  purpose. 

Tauler's  reprobation  of  these  forms  of  mysticism — which  his  own  expressions, 
too  literally  understood,  might  appear  sometimes  to  approach — shows  clearly 
that  he  was  himself  practically  free  from  such  extremes.  His  concluding  remarks 
enforce  very  justly  the  necessity  of  good  works  as  an  evidence  to  our  felloA-men 
of  our  sincerity.  He  dwells  on  the  indispensableness  of  religious  ordinance, 
worship,  and  thanksgiving,   as  at  once  the  expression  and  the  nouris'ament 


c.  5]        (German  Mysticism  in  the  14'*  Century.         259 

of  devout  affection.  He  precludes  at  the  same  time,  in  the  strongest  language, 
all  merit  in  the  creature  before  God.  '  I  say  that  if  it  were  possible  for  our 
spiritual  nature  to  be  deprived  of  all  its  modes  of  operation,  and  to  be  as  abso- 
lutely inactive  as  it  was  when  it  lay  yet  uncreated  in  the  abyss  of  the  Divint: 
Nature, — if  it  were  possible  for  the  rational  creature  to  be  still  as  it  was  when 
in  God  prior  to  creation, — neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  even  thus  merit 
anything,  yea,  not  now  any  more  than  then  ;  it  would  have  no  more  holiness  or 
blessedness  in  itself  than  a  block  or  a  stone'  (p.  243).  He  points  to  the  e.xample 
of  Christ  as  the  best  refutation  of  this  false  doctrine  of  Quiet,  saying,  '  He  con- 
tinued without  ceasing  to  love  and  desire,  to  bless  and  praise  his  Heavenly  Father, 
and  though  his  soul  was  joined  to  and  blessed  in  the  Divine  Eijsence,  yet  he 
never  arrived  at  the  Euiptiness  of  which  these  men  talk.' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Keep  ail  thy  native  good,  and  naturalize 
All  foreign  of  that  name  ;  but  icorn  their  ill. 
Embrace  their  activeness,  not  vanities  ; 
Who  follows  all  things  forfeiteth  his  will. 

Hekdert. 

'"T"  HE  day  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  the  last  chapter, 

Atherton  was  called  to  a  distance  from  Summerford  on 

legal  business.     Before  leaving,  he  had  some  further  talk  with 

Willoughby  on  several  topics  suggested  by  what  had  passed  on 

the  previous  day.    The  lawyers  did  not  release  him  so  promptly 

as  he  had  expected,  and  as  he  had  taken  a  copy  of  Tauler's 

sermons  with  him,  and  had  time  at  his  disposal,  he  wrote  more 

than  once  to  his  friend  in  the  course  of  the  next  week.     This 

chapter  will  consist  of  extracts  from  the  letters  thus  written,  and 

will  form  a  fitting  supplement  to  matters  dealt  with  in  several 

preceding  conversations. 

#*♦*#* 

I  scarcely  need  remind  you  that  there  are  great  practical 
advantages  to  be  derived  from  a  course  of  mental  travel  among 
forms  of  Christian  belief  in  many  respects  foreign  to  our  own. 
Nothing  so  surely  arrests  our  spiritual  growth  as  a  self-compla- 
cent, insular  disdain  of  other  men's  faith.  To  displace  this 
pride  by  brotherly-kindness — to  seek  out  lovingly  the  points 
whereon  we  agree  with  others,  and  not  censoriously  those 
wherein  v/e  differ,  is  to  live  in  a  clearer  light,  as  well  as  a  larger 
love.  Then  again,  the  powers  of  observation  and  of  discrimi- 
nation called  into  exercise  by  such  journeyings  among  brethren 


c.  6.J  Liberal  Christianity.  261 

of  another  speech  will  greatly  benefit  us.  The  very  endeavour 
to  distinguish  between  the  good  in  others  which  we  should 
naturalize  and  assimilate  for  ourselves,  and  the  error  which 
could  be  profitable  neither  for  them  nor  for  us,  is  most  whole- 
some. Such  studies  lead  us  to  take  account  of  what  we 
already  have  and  believe ;  so  that  we  come  to  know  ourselves 
better  by  the  comparison  both  in  what  we  possess  and  in  what 
we  lack.  Every  section  of  the  Church  of  Christ  desires  to 
include  in  its  survey  the  whole  fabric  of  revealed  truth.  What 
party  will  admit  to  an  antagonist  that  its  study  of  the  divine 
edifice  has  been  confined  to  a  single  aspect  ?  And  yet  the 
fact  is  beyond  all  candid  questioning  that  each  group  of  wor- 
shippers, with  whatever  honesty  of  intention  they  may  have 
started  to  go  round  about  the  building,  and  view  it  fairly  from 
every  side,  have,  notwithstanding,  their  favourite  point  of 
contemplation — one  spot  where  they  are  most  frequently  to  be 
found,  intent  on  that  side  of  truth  to  which,  from  temperament 
or  circumstance,  they  are  most  attached.  There  is  both  good 
and  evil  in  this  inevitable  partiality  ;  but  the  good  will  be  most 
happily  realized,  and  the  evil  most  successfully  avoided,  if  we 
have  liberality  enough  now  and  then  to  take  each  other's 
places.  It  is  possible,  in  this  way,  both  to  qualify  and  to  enrich 
our  own  impressions  from  the  observations  of  those  who  have 
given  themselves,  with  all  the  intensity  of  passion,  to  some 
aspect  of  truth,  which,  while  it  may  be  the  opposite,  is  yet  the 
complement  of  the  view  preferred  by  ourselves.  How  often,  as 
the  result  of  an  acquaintance  made  with  some  such  diverse  (and 
yet  kindred)  species  of  devotion,  are  we  led  to  ask  ourselves — 
*  Is  there  not  a  luller  meaning  than  I  had  supposed  in  this  pas- 
sage, or  that  other,  of  Holy  Writ  ?  Have  I  not,  because  certain 
passages  have  been  abused,  allowed  myself  unconsciously  to 
slight  or  to  deuaud  them  of  their  due  significance?'  And,  in 
this  way  both  those  parts  ot  Scripture  we  have  most  deeply 


262        German  Mysticism  in  the  \\^^  Century.        [d.  w 

studied,  and  those  which  we  have  but  touched  with  our  plum- 
met, may  disclose  their  blessing  to  us,  and  fill  higher  the 
measure  of  our  joy. 

Nor  is  this  all.  We  gather  both  instruction  and  comfort 
from  the  spiritual  history  of  others  who  have  passed  through 
the  same  darkness,  doubt,  or  sorrow,  which  we  ourselves  have 
either  encountered,  or  may  be  on  our  way  to  meet.  How  glad 
was  Christian  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  a  fellow-pilgrim  in 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  !  And  when  suns  are 
bright,  and  the  waters  calm,  and  the  desired  wind  blows 
steadily,  he  is  the  wise  mariner  who  employs  his  leisure  in 
studying  the  records  of  others  who  have  made  voyage  already 
in  those  latitudes ;  who  learns  from  their  expedients,  their 
mishaps,  or  their  deliverances,  how  best  to  weather  the  storms, 
or  to  escape  the  quicksands  that  await  him.  Of  all  who  have 
sailed  the  seas  of  life,  no  men  have  experienced  a  range  of 
vicissitude  more  wide  than  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  some  among 
the  mystics.  Theirs  have  been  the  dazzling  heights ;  the 
lowest  depths  also  have  been  theirs.  Their  solitary  vessels  have 
been  swept  into  the  frozen  North,  where  the  ice  of  a  great 
despair  has  closed  about  them  like  the  ribs  of  death,  and  through 
a  long  soul's  winter  they  have  lain  hidden  in  cold  and  darkness, 
as  some  belated  swallow  in  the  cleft  of  a  rock.  It  has  been 
theirs,  too,  to  encounter  the  perilous  fervours  of  that  zone  where 
never  cooling  cloud  appears  to  veil  insufferable  radiance,  and 
to  glow  beneath  those  glories  with  an  ardour  so  intense  that 
some  men,  in  their  pity,  have  essayed  to  heal  it  as  a  fever,  and 
others,  in  their  wrath,  to  chain  it  as  a  frenzy.  Now  afflicted, 
tossed  with  tempest,  and  not  comforted,  ere  long  there  hath 
been  built  for  them  at  once  a  palace  and  a  place  of  rest ;  their 
foundations  have  been  laid  with  sapphires,  their  windows  have 
been  made  of  agates,  and  their  gates  of  carbuncles,  and  all 
their  borders  of  pleasant  stones. 


c.  6]  Rest.  263 

A  place  of  rest!  Yes,  in  that  one  word  rest  lies  all  the 
longing  of  the  mystic.  Every  creature  in  heaven  above,  and  in 
the  earth  beneath,  saith  Master  Eckart,  all  things  in  the  height 
and  all  things  in  the  depth,  have  one  yearning,  one  ceaseless, 
unfathomable  desire,  one  voice  of  aspiration :  it  is  for  rest ;  and 
again,  for  rest ;  and  ever,  till  the  end  of  time,  for  rest !  The 
mystics  have  constituted  themselves  the  interpreters  of  these 
sighs  and  groans  of  the  travailing  creation ;  they  are  the 
hierophants  to  gather,  and  express,  and  offer  them  to  heaven  ; 
they  are  the  teachers  to  weary,  weeping  men  of  the  way 
whereby  they  may  attain,  even  on  this  side  the  grave,  a  serenity 
like  that  of  heaven.  What  the  halcyon  of  fable  is  among  the 
birds,  that  are  the  mystics  among  their  kind.  They  essay  to 
build  them  a  marvellous  nest,  which  not  only  floats  upon  the 
waves  of  life,  but  has  the  property  of  charming  those  waves  to 
a  glassy  stillness,  so  that  in  mid-winter,  and  the  very  heart  of 
storms,  their  souls  enjoy,  for  a  season,  what  the  ancients  called 
'  the  halcyon  days,' — that  wondrous  week  of  calm  ordained  for 
the  favoured  bird  when  the  year  is  roughest.  'Tis  pity,  mur- 
murs old  Montaigne,  that  more  information  hath  not  come  down 
to  us  concerning  the  construction  of  these  nests.  Tradition 
has  it,  that  the  halcyon  first  of  all  fashions  the  said  nest  by 
interlacing  the  bones  of  some  fish.  When  it  is  put  together 
she  takes  it,  like  a  boat  ready  for  launching,  and  lays  it  on  the 
beach  :  the  waves  come  up  :  they  lift  it :  they  let  it  fall :  they 
toss  it  gently  among  the  rocks  and  pebbles  ;  what  is  faultily 
made  their  play  breaks,  or  makes  to  gape,  so  that  the  bird 
discovers  the  weak  places,  and  what  parts  must  be  more  duly 
finished ;  what  is  well  knit  together  already,  their  strokes  only 
season  and  confirm.  Now  when  we  read  the  lives  of  the  mys- 
tics—each of  whom  has  a  method,  more  or  less  his  own,  of 
weaving  such  a  nest,  in  other  words,  his  Theory  and  Practice  of 
Quietude — we  see  the   structure   on  trial.      Experience,  with 


264         German  Mysticism  in  the  14.'^'  Century.       [b.  vi. 

its  buffeting,  tests  each  man's  method  for  the  attainment  of 
Rest.  If  we  watch  carefully,  we  shall  see  that  some  things  in 
the  doctrine  of  many  of  them  break  away  under  trial,  while 
others  are  rendered  only  more  compact  and  buoyant  thereby. 
The  examination  of  the  appliances  and  the  processes  adopted 
by  these  searchers  after  the  Divine  Stillness,  ought  to  be  very 
helpful  to  ourselves.  As  far  as  we  have  their  history  before 
us,  we  can  try  them  by  their  fruits.  We  ask,  in  the  case  of  one 
man,  by  what  divine  art  was  it  that  his  ark  was  so  skilfully 
framed  as  to  out-ride  those  deluges  of  trouble  as  though  they 
had  been  the  waters  of  some  windless  mere?  We  ask,  in  the 
case  of  another,  by  what  fault  came  it  in  the  structure  of  his 
sailing  nest,  that  the  waters  entered,  and  he  sank,  or  seemed  to 
sink,  finding  not  the  rest  of  soul  he  sought,  but  the  vexation  of 
soul  he  fled  ?  We  ask,  in  the  several  most  signal  examples  of 
the  class,  how  far  did  their  mysticism  help  them  to  realize  true 
manhood — make  them  strong  to  bear  and  strong  to  do  ?  Hc^v 
far  did  it  lend,  or  did  it  not  tend,  towards  the  complete  de- 
velopment and  consecration  of  their  nature  ? 

To  derive  from  such  inquiries  their  full  benefit,  two  qualifica- 
tions are  indispensable  : — the  judgment  must  be  clear,  the 
sympathies  must  be  warm.  The  inquirer  must  retain  self-pos- 
session enough  not  to  be  too  readily  fascinated,  or  too  soon 
offended,  by  certain  strange  and  startling  forms  of  expression ; 
he  must  not  suppose,  that  because,  for  a  long  time,  the  mystics 
have  been  unduly  depreciated,  it  is  wisdom  now  to  cover  them 
with  thoughtless  and  indiscriminate  praise.  He  must  not  sup- 
pose that  the  mystics  are  an  exception  to  the  ordinary  limitations 
of  mortals — that  the  glorious  intensity  of  some  among  them 
was  realized  without  any  diminution  of  breadth,  and  that  their 
view  embraced,  with  equal  fondness  and  with  equal  insight, 
every  quarter  in  the  heaven  of  truth.  And,  on  the  other  hand, 
let  him  beware  how  he  seeks  to  understand  these  men  without 


c.  6.3     spirit  in  which  Mysticism  should  be  studied.    265 

fellow-feeling  and  without  love.  The  weak  and  volatile  nature 
IS  smitten,  on  a  first  interview  with  the  mystics,  with  a  rage  for 
mysticism — is  for  turning  mystic  straightway,  and  is  out  of 
patience,  for  six  weeks,  with  every  other  form  of  Christianity. 
The  cold  and  proud  nature  scorns  their  ardour  as  a  phantasy, 
and  (to  its  own  grievous  injury)  casts  out  the  warmth  they 
bring.  The  loving  nature  and  the  wise  says  not,  '  I  will  be 
blind  to  their  errors,'  but,  '  I  will  always  look  at  those  errors  in 
the  light  of  their  excellences.' 

'The  critic  of  Tauler  no  man  has  a  right  to  become,  who  has 
not  first  ascertained  that  he  is  a  better  man  than  Tauler." 
What  are  we  to  understand  by  these  words  ?  If  such  an  asser- 
tion be  true  at  all,  it  cannot  be  true  for  Tauler  only.  Would 
Mr.  Kingsley  say  that  no  man  has  a  right  to  become  the  critic 
of  Augustine,  of  Luther,  of  Calvin,  of  Wesley,  of  George  Fox, 
who  has  not  first  ascertained  himself  a  better  man  ?  Ought 
every  biographer,  who  is  not  a  mere  blind  eulogist,  to  start  with 
the  presumption  that  he  is  a  better  man  than  he  of  whom  he 
writes  ?  Ought  the  historian,  who  forms  his  critical  estimate 
of  the  qualities  possessed  or  laoking — of  the  service  rendered 
in  this  direction  or  in  that,  by  the  worthies  of  the  Church, 
to  suppose  himself  superior  to  each  in  turn  ?  As  in  art  he 
who  estimates  the  worth  of  a  poem  is  not  required  to  write 
better  poetry,  so  in  morals,  he  who  estimates  the  worth  of  a 
character  is  not  required  to  display  superior  virtue.  Or  is  it 
the  opinions,  rather  than  the  character  of  Tauler,  which  only  a 
better  man  than  Tauler  may  criticise  ?  Any  one  who,  on  being 
made  acquainted  with  certain  opinions,  differs  from  them,  is 
supposed  to  have  criticised  them.  In  as  far  as  Mr.  Kingsley 
may  not  agree  with  some  of  the  well-known  opinions  of  Augus- 
tine, Luther,  or  Fox,  so  far  has  he  ventured  to  be  their  critic ; 
yet  he  does  not  suppose  himself  a  better  man.  Why  should 
'  Preface  to  Taule.'s  Life  and  Sermons  by  Susanna  Winkworth. 


266        German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [n.  n. 

Tauler  alone  be  thus  fenced  about  with  a  statement  that  virtually 
prohibits  criticism  ?  Such  advocacy  harms  a  client's  cause. 
People  are  apt  to  suspect  that  their  scrutiny  is  feared,  when 
such  pains  are  taken  to  keep  them  at  a  distance.  So  confident 
am  I  that  the  dross  in  Tauler  is  as  nothing  beside  the 
gold,  that  I  would  invite,  rather  than  deter,  the  most  candid 
and  sober  exercise  of  the  critical  judgment  with  regard  to 
him.  Perhaps  Mr.  Kingsley  may  be,  in  reality,  much  of  the 
same  mind ;  if  so,  he  should  not  write  as  though  he  thought 
quite  otherwise. 

I  cannot  suppose  that  Mr.  Kingsley  would  seriously  main- 
tain that  the  mystic  ought,  from  the  very  nature  of  his  claims, 
to  be  exempt  from  that  scrutiny  to  which  history  continually 
subjects  the  fathers,  the  schoolmen,  and  the  reformers.  Yet 
there  are  those  who  would  have  us  hearken  to  every  voice  pro- 
fessing to  speak  from  the  '  everlasting  deeps'  with  a  reverence 
little  more  discriminating  than  that  which  the  Mussulman 
renders  to  idiocy  and  madness.  Curiously  ignorant  concerning 
the  very  objects  of  their  praise,  these  admirers  would  seem  to 
suppose  that  every  mystic  repudiates  the  exercise  of  under- 
standing, is  indifferent  to  the  use  of  language,  and  invariably 
dissolves  religious  opinion  in  religious  sentiment.  These 
eulogists  of  mysticism  imagine  that  they  have  found  in  the  vir- 
tues of  a  Tauler,  a  platform  whence  to  play  off  with  advantage 
a  volley  of  commonplaces  against  '  literalisms,'  *  formulas/ 
*  creeds,'  '  shams,'  and  the  like.  It  is  high  time  to  rescue  the 
mystics  from  a  foolish  adoration,  which  the  best  among  them 
would  be  the  most  eager  to  repudiate.  So  far  from  forbidding 
men  to  try  the  spirits,  the  most  celebrated  among  the  mystics 
lead  the  way  in  such  examination.  It  is  the  mystics  themselves 
who  warn  us  so  seriously  that  mysticism  comprises  an  evil 
tendency  as  well  as  a  good,  and  has  had  its  utterances  from 
the  nether  realms  as  well  as   from   the  upper.     The  great 


6.]  Vagueness  of  the  ivord  Mysticism.  267 


mystics  of  the  fourteenth  century  would  have  been  indignant 
with  any  man  who  had  confounded,  in  a  blind  admiration, 
their  mysticism  with  the  self-deifying  antinomianism  that  pre- 
vailed among  the  *  Brethren  of  the  Free  Spirit.'  In  many  of 
Tauler's  sermons,  in  the  Theologia  Gennanica,  in  the  writings 
of  Suso  and  of  Ruysbroek,  care  is  taken  to  mark,  with  all  the 
accuracy  possible  to  language,  the  distinction  between  the  False 
Light  and  the  True.  There  is  not  a  confession  of  faith  in  the 
world  which  surpasses  in  clearness  and  precision  the  propositions 
in  Fenelon's  Maxims  of  the  Saints,  whereby  it  is  proposed  to 
separate  the  genuine  Quietism  from  the  spurious.  The  mystic 
Gerson  criticises  the  mystic  Ruysbroek.  Nicholas  of  Strasburg 
criticises  Hildegard  and  Joachim  ;  Behmen  criticises  Stiefel  and 
Meth  ;  Henry  More  criticises  the  followers  of  George  Fox.  So 
far  are  such  mystics  from  that  indifference  to  the  true  or  the 
false  in  doctrine,  which  constitutes,  with  some,  their  highest 
claim  to  our  admiration.  It  is  absurd  to  praise  men  for  a 
folly  :  it  is  still  more  absurd  to  praise  them  for  a  folly  of  which 
they  are  guiltless. 

But  here  I  can  suppose  some  one  ready  to  interrupt  me 
with  some  such  question  as  this  :— Is  it  not  almost  inevitable, 
when  the  significance  of  the  word  mysticism  is  so  broad  and 
ill-defined,  that  those  who  speak  of  it  should  misunderstand  or 
be  misunderstood  .-*  What  two  persons  can  you  meet  with  who 
will  define  the  term  in  precisely  the  same  way  ?  The  word  is 
in  itself  a  not  less  general  and  extensive  one  than  revolution, 
for  instance.  No  one  speaks  of  revolution  in  the  abstract  as 
good  or  evil.  Every  one  calls  this  or  that  revolution  glorious 
or  disastrous,  as  they  conceive  it  to  have  overthrown  a  good 
government  or  a  bad.  But  the  best  among  such  movements 
are  not  without  their  evil,  nor  are  the  worst  perhaps  absolutely 
destitute  of  good.  Does  not  mysticism,  in  like  manner,  some- 
times rise  up  against  a  monstrous    tyranny,  and   sometimes 


2  68        German  Mysticism  in  the  14''^  Century.        [n.  vi. 

violate  a  befitting  order?  Has  there  been  no  excess  in  its 
triumphs  ?  Has  there  been  no  excuse  for  its  offences  ?  See, 
then,  what  opposites  are  coupled  under  this  single  word !  Is 
it  not  mainly  for  this  reason  that  you  hear  one  man  condemning 
and  another  extolling  mysticism  ?  He  who  applauds  is  think- 
ing of  such  mystics  as  Bernard,  or  Tauler,  or  Fenelon  ;  he  who 
denounces  is  thinking  of  the  Carlstadts,  the  Mvinzers,  or  the 
Southcotes.  He  who  applauds  is  thinking  of  men  who  van- 
quished formalism  ;  he  who  denounces  is  thinking  of  men  who 
trampled  on  reason  or  morality.  Has  not  each  his  right  ?  Are 
not  your  differences  mere  disputes  about  nomenclature,  and  can 
you  ever  come  to  understanding  while  you  employ  so  ambiguous 
a  term  ? 

So  it  seems  to  me  that  Common  Sense  might  speak,  and  very 
forcibly,  too.  It  is  indeed  to  be  regretted  that  we  have  not  two 
words — one  to  express  what  may  be  termed  the  true,  and 
another  for  the  false,  mysticism.  But  regret  is  useless.  Rather 
let  us  endeavour  to  show  how  we  may  employ,  least  disad- 
vantageously,  a  term  so  controverted  and  unfortunate. 

On  one  single  question  the  whole  matter  turns  : — Are  we  or 
are  we  not  to  call  St.  John  a  mystic  ?  If  we  say  '  Yes,'  then 
of  course  all  those  are  mystics  whose  teaching  is  largely  impreg- 
nated with  the  aspect  of  Christianity  presented  in  the  writings 
of  that  Apostle.  Then  he  is  a  mystic  who  loves  to  dwell  on 
the  union  of  Christians  with  Christ ;  on  His  abode  in  us,  and 
our  abiding  in  Him  ;  on  the  identity  of  our  knowledge  of  God 
with  our  likeness  to  Him  ;  of  truth  with  love  ;  of  light  with 
life  ;  on  the  witness  which  he  who  believes  hath  within  himself. 
Then  he  is  a  mystic  who  regards  the  Eternal  Word  as  the 
source  of  whatever  light  and  truth  has  anywhere  been  found 
among  men,  and  who  conceives  ot  the  Church  of  Christ  as  the 
progressive  realization  of  the  Redeemer's  prayer — *  I  in  them 
and  thou  in  me,  that  they  may  be  made  perfect  in  one.' 


o.  6.]  The  Test  of  Scripture.  269 

Now,  I  think  that,  in  the  strict  use  of  language,  the  word 
mystic  should  be  applied,  not  to  St.  John,  but  to  those  who 
more  or  less  exaggerate  his  doctrine  concerning  spiritual  influ- 
ence and  life  in  God.  The  Scripture  is  the  standard  whereby 
alone  the  spirits  are  to  be  tried,  in  all  candour  and  charity.  To 
those  who  repudiate  this  authority  I  do  not  write.  But  if  any 
one,  understanding  by  '  mystics'  simply  those  who  give  full 
force  to  the  language  of  St.  John,  shall  praise  them,  however 
highly,  I  am  perfectly  at  one  with  him  in  his  admiration — my 
only  difference  is  about  the  use  of  the  mere  word. 

So  much  then  is  settled.  It  will  be  obvious,  however,  that 
the  historian  of  mysticism  will  scarcely  find  it  possible  always  to 
confine  his  use  of  the  word  to  the  exaggeration  just  specified. 
For  he  must  take  up,  one  after  the  other,  all  those  personages 
who  have  at  anytime  been  reckoned  by  general  consent  among 
the  mystics.  But  an  age  which  has  relapsed  into  coldness  will 
inevitably  stigmatize  as  a  mystic  any  man  whose  devout  ardour 
rises  a  i^^fi  degrees  above  its  own  frigidity.  It  is  as  certain  as 
anything  can  be  that,  if  a  German  had  appeared  among  the 
Lutherans  of  the  seventeenth  century,  teaching  in  his  own  way 
just  as  St.  John  taught,  without  one  particle  of  exaggeration, 
he  would  have  been  denounced  as  a  mystic  from  a  hundred 
pulpits.  Hence  it  has  come  to  pass  that  some  men,  who  have 
figured  largely  as  mystics  in  the  history  of  the  Church,  have  in 
them  but  a  comparatively  small  measure  of  that  subjective 
excess  which  we  would  call  mysticism,  in  the  strict  sense. 
Tauler  is  one  of  these. 

But  it  may  be  said, — You  talk  of  testing  these  men  by  Scrip- 
ture ;  yet  you  can  only  mean,  hy your  interpretation  of  Scrip- 
ture. How  are  you  sure  that  your  interpretation  is  better  than 
tlieirs  ?  Such  an  objection  lies  equally  against  every  appeal  to 
Scripture.  For  we  all  appeal  to  what  we  suppose  to  be  the 
meaning  of  the  sacred  writers,  ascertained  according  to  the  best 


2^6        German  Mysticism  in  the  14''*  Century.        [b.  vi. 

exercise  of  our  judgment.  The  science  of  hermeneutics  has 
established  certain  general  principles  of  interpretation  which 
are  acknowledged  by  scholars  of  every  creed.  But  if  any  one 
no\v-a-days  resolves  the  New  Testament  into  allegory,  and  sup- 
poses, for  example,  that  by  the  five  husbands  of  the  woman  of 
Samaria  we  are  to  understand  the  five  Senses,  I  cannot  or 
course  try  my  cause  with  him  before  a  Court  where  he  makes  • 
the  verdict  what  he  pleases.  I  can  only  leave  him  with  his 
riddles,  and  request  him  to  carry  my  compliments  to  the 
Sphinx. 

There  is,  then,  a  twofold  test  by  which  Tauler  and  other 
mystics  are  to  be  judged,  if  their  teaching  is  to  profit  rather 
than  to  confuse  and  mislead  us.  We  may  compare  the  purport 
of  his  discourses  with  the  general  tenor  and  bearing  of  the  New 
Testament,  as  far  as  we  can  apprehend  it  as  a  whole.  Are 
some  unquestionable  truths  but  rarely  touched,  and  others 
pushed  to  their  utmost  limits  ?  If  we  think  we  see  a  certain 
disproportionateness — that  there  is  a  joyousness,  and  freedom, 
and  warm  humanity  about  the  portraiture  of  Christian  life  in 
St.  John,  which  we  lack  in  his  very  sincere  disciple,  the  ascetic 
and  the  mystic, — we  trifle  with  truth  if  we  do  not  say  so. 
The  other  test  is  the  hisiorical.  Was  a  certain  mystic  on  the 
side  of  the  truth  and  onwardness  of  his  time,  or  against  it? 
Did  he  rise  above  its  worst  errors,  or  did  he  aggravate  them  ? 
And  here  Tauler  stands  with  a  glory  round  his  head.  What- 
ever exaggeration  there  may  have  been  of  the  inward  as  against 
the  outward,  it  was  scarcely  more  than  was  inevitable  in  the 
case  of  a  man  who  had  to  maintain  the  inmost  verities  of 
Christian  life  amidst  almost  universal  formality  and  death. 

What  then,  it  may  be  asked,  is  that  exaggeration  of  which 
you  speak  ?  For  hitherto  your  account  of  mysticism  proper  is 
only  negative — it  is  a  something  which  St.  John  does  7iot  teach. 

I  will  give  a  few  examples.     If  a  man  should  imagine  that 


6]  St.  John^s  Teaching.  ^71 


his   inward  light  superseded   outward  testimony,  so  that  the 
words  of  Christ  and  his  inspired  disciples  became  superfluous 
to  him  ;  if  he  regarded  indifference  to  the  facts  and  recorded 
truths  of  the  New  Testament  as  a  sign  of  eminent  spirituahty, 
such  a  man  would,  I   think,  abuse  the  teaching  of  St.  John 
concerning  the  unction  from  the  Holy  One.    The  same  Apostle 
who  declares  that  he  who  hateth  his  brother  abideth  in  darkness, 
refuses  to  bid  God  speed  to  him  who  brings  not  the  doctrine  of 
Christ,  and  inseparably  associates  the   '  anointing'  which  his 
children  had  received,  with  their  abiding  in  the  truth  they  had 
oeard  from  his  lips,  (i  John  ii.  24.)     If,  again,  any  man  were 
to  pretend  that  a  special  revelation  exempted  him  from  the 
ordinary  obligations  of  morality — that  his  union  with  God  was 
such  as  to  render  sinless  in  him  what  would  have  been  sin  in 
others,  he  would  be  condemned,  and  not  supported,  by  con- 
science and  Scripture.     Neither  could  that  mystic  appeal  to 
St.  John  who  should  teach,  instead  of  the  discipline  and  conse- 
cration of  our  faculties,  such  an  abandonment  of  their  use,  in 
favour  of  supernatural  gifts,  as  should  be  a  premium  on  his 
indolence,  and  a  discouragement  to  all  faithful  endeavour  to 
ascertain  the  sense  of  Holy  Writ.     Nor,  again,  does  any  mystic 
who  disdains  hope  as  a  meanness  abide  by  the  teaching  of  St. 
John.     For  the  Apostle  regards  the  hope  of  heaven  as  emi- 
nently conducive  to  our  fitness  for  it,  and  says — 'He  that  hath 
this  hope  purifieth  himself.'     The  mystical  ascetic  who  refuses 
to  pray  for  particular  or  temporal  bestowments  is  wrong  in  his 
practice,  however  elevated  in  his  motive.     For  St  John  can 
write, — '  I  pray  (tyx^A'^O  above  all  things  that  thou  mayest 
prosper  and    be   in   health,    even   as    thy   soul   prospereth.' 
(3  John  2.)     Nowhere  does  that  Apostle  prescribe  absolute 
mdifference,   or   absolute  passivity.      Lastly,  John  is   not   so 
afraid  of  anthropomorphism  as  to  discourage  or  refine  away  the 
symbol  and  the  figure.    It  is  evident  that  he  regards  the  father- 


2/2        German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [u.  vi 


hoods  and  the  brotherhoods  of  this  earthly  Hfe,  not  as  fleshly 
ideas  which  profane  things  spiritual,  but  as  adumbrations,  most 
fit  (however  inadequate)  to  set  forth  the  divine  relationship  to 
us, — yea,  farther,  as  facts  which  would  never  have  had  place  in 
time,  had  not  somethiag  like  their  archetype  from  the  first  existed 
in  that  Eternal  Mind  who  has  made  man  in  his  own  image. 

I  remember  hearing  of  an  old  lady,  a  member  of  the  Society 
of  Friends,  who  interrupted  a  conversation  in  which  the  name 
of  Jerusalem  had  been  mentioned,  by  the  exclamation,  'Jeru- 
salem— umph — Jerusalem — it  has  not  yet  been  revealed  to  me 
that  there  is  such  a  place  !'  Now  I  do  not  say  that  our  friend 
the  Quakeress  might  not  have  been  an  excellent  Christian  ;  but 
I  do  venture  to  think  her  far  gone  in  mysticism.  Her  remark 
puts  the  idea  of  mysticism,  in  its  barest  and  most  extreme  form, 
as  a  tendency  which  issues  in  refusing  to  acknowledge  the 
external  world  as  a  source  of  religious  knowledge  in  any  way, 
and  will  have  every  man's  Christianity  evolved  de  novo  from 
the  depths  of  his  own  consciousness,  as  though  no  apostle  had 
ever  preached,  or  evangelist  written,  or  any  Christian  existed 
beside  himself  It  is  not,  therefore,  the  holding  the  doctrine  of 
an  inward  light  that  makes  a  mystic,  but  the  holding  it  in 
such  a  way  as  to  ignore  or  to  diminish  the  proper  province  of 
the  outer. 

I  should  certainly  like  to  see  some  one  settle  for  us  defini- 
tively the  questions  which  lie  at  the  root  of  mysticism,  such  as 
these,  for  example  : — Is  there  an  immediate  influence  exerted 
by  the  Spirit  of  God  on  the  spirit  of  man  ?  And  if  so,  under 
what  conditions  ?  What  are  those  limits  which,  once  passed, 
land  us  in  mysticism  ?  But  the  task,  I  fear,  is  beyond  all  hope 
of  satisfactory  execution.  Every  term  used  would  have  to  be 
defined,  and  the  words  of  the  definition  defined  again,  and  every 
definition  and  subdefinition  would  be  open  to  some  doubt  or 


0.6]  Immediate  Spiritual  Influence.  273 

some  objection.  Marco  Polo  tells  us  that  the  people  of  Kin-sai 
throw  into  the  fire,  at  funerals,  pieces  of  painted  paper,  repre- 
senting servants,  horses,  and  furniture ;  believing  that  the 
deceased  will  enjoy  the  use  of  realities  corresponding  to  these  in 
the  other  world.  But,  alas,  for  our  poor  definition-cutter,  with 
It's  logical  scissors  !  Where  shall  he  find  a  faith  like  that  of 
the  Kin-sai  people,  to  believe  that  there  actually  exist,  in  the 
realm  of  spirit  and  the  world  of  ideas,  realities  answering  to  the 
terms  he  fashions  ?  No  ;  these  questions  admit  but  of  approxi- 
mate solution.  The  varieties  of  spiritual  experience  defy  all 
but  a  few  broad  and  simple  rules.  Hath  not  One  told  us  that 
the  influence  in  which  we  believe  is  as  the  wind,  which  blowetli 
as  it  listeth,  and  we  cannot  tell  whence  it  cometh  and  whither 
it  goeth? 

For  my  own  part,  I  firmly  believe  that  there  is  an  immediate 
influence  exerted  by  the  Divine  Spirit.  But  is  this  immediate 
influence  above  sense  and  consciousness,  or  not?  Yes,  answers 
many  a  mystic.  But,  if  it  be  above  consciousness,  how  can  any 
man  be  conscious  of  it  ?  And  what  then  becomes  of  the  doc- 
trine— so  vital  with  a  large  class  of  mystics — of  perceptible 
guidance,  of  inward  impulses  and  monitions?  Speaking  with 
due  caution  on  a  matter  so  mysterious,  I  should  say  that,  while 
the  indwelling  and  guidance  of  the  Spirit  is  most  real,  such 
influence  is  not  ordinarily  perceptible.  It  would  be  presump- 
tion to  deny  that  in  certain  cases  of  especial  need  (as  in  some 
times  of  persecution,  sore  distress,  or  desolation)  manifestations 
of  a  special  (though  not  miraculous)  nature  may  have  been 
vouchsafed. 

With  regard  to  the  witness  of  the  Spirit,  I  think  that  the 
language  of  St.  John  warrants  us  in  believing  that  the  divine 
life  within  us  is  its  own  evidence.  Certain  states  of  physical 
or  mental  distemper  being  excepted,  in  so  far  as  our  life  in 
Christ  is  vigorously  and  watchfully  maintained,  in  so  far  will 

VOL.  I.  T 


2  74        German  Mysticisjn  in  the  14     Century.        [b.  vi. 

the  witness  of  the  Spirit  with  our  spirit  give  us  direct  convic- 
tion of  our  sonship.  How  frequently,  throughout  his  first 
Epistle,  does  the  Apostle  repeat  that  favourite  word,  oida/xiy, 
'  7ve  know  P 

Again,  as  to  the  presence  of  Christ  in  the  soul.  Says  the 
Lutheran  Church,  '  We  condemn  those  who  say  that  the  gifts 
of  God  only,  and  not  God  himself,  dwell  in  the  believer.'  I 
have  no  wish  to  echo  any  such  condemnation,  but  I  believe  that 
the  Lutheran  affirmation  is  the  doctrine  of  Scripture.  Both 
Christ  hvmself  and  the  Spirit  of  Christ  are  said  to  dwell  within 
the  children  of  God,  We  may  perhaps  regard  the  indwelling 
of  Christ  as  the  abiding  source  or  principle  of  the  new  life,  and 
the  indwelling  of  the  Spirit  as  that  progressive  operation  which 
forms  in  us  the  likeness  to  Christ.  The  former  is  vitality  itself; 
the  latter  has  its  degrees,  as  we  grow  in  holiness. 

Once  more,  as  to  passivity.  If  we  really  believe  in  spiritual 
guidance,  we  shall  agree  with  those  mystics  who  bid  us  abstain 
from  any  self-willed  guiding  of  ourselves.  When  a  good  man 
has  laid  self  totally  aside  that  he  may  follow  only  the  leading  of 
the  Spirit,  is  it  not  essential  to  any  practical  belief  in  Divine 
direction  that  he  should  consider  what  then  appears  to  him  as 
right  or  wrong  to  be  really  such,  in  his  case,  according  to  the 
mind  of  the  Spirit  ?  Yet  to  say  thus  much  is  not  to  admit  that 
the  influences  of  the  Spirit  are  ordinarily  perceptible.  The 
motion  of  a  leaf  may  indicate  the  direction  of  a  current  of  air ; 
it  does  not  render  the  air  visible.  The  mystic  who  has  gathered 
up  his  soul  in  a  still  expectancy,  perceives  at  last  a  certain 
dominant  thought  among  his  thoughts.  He  is  determined;  in 
one  direction  or  another.  But  what  he  has  perceived  is  still 
one  of  his  own  thoughts  in  motion,  not  the  hand  of  the  Divine 
Mover.  Here,  however,  some  mystics  would  say,  'You  beg 
the  question.  What  we  perceive  is  a  something  quite  separate 
from  ourselves — in  fact,  the  impelling  Spirit.'     In  this  case  the 


c.  6]  Mistakes  concerning  Passivity.  275 

matter  is  beyond  discussion.  I  can  only  say,  my  conscious- 
ness is  different.  I  shall  be  to  him  a  rationalist,  as  he  to  me  a 
mystic  ;  but  let  us  not  dispute. 

Obviously,  the  great  difficulty  is  to  be  quite  sure  that  we 
have  so  annihilated  every  passion,  preference  or  foregone  con- 
clusion as  to  make  it  certain  that  only  powers  from  heaven  can 
be  working  on  the  waters  of  the  soul.  That  ripple,  which 
has  just  stirred  the  stillness  !  Was  it  a  breath  of  earthly  air  ? 
Was  it  the  leaping  of  a  desire  from  within  us  ?  Or  was  it 
indeed  the  first  touch,  as  it  were,  of  some  angelic  hand,  com- 
missioned to  trouble  the  pool  with  healing  from  on  high  ?  If 
such  questions  are  hard  to  answer,  when  judging  ourselves, 
how  much  more  so  when  judging  each  other  ! 

When  we  desire  to  determine  difficult  duty  by  aid  of  the 
illumination  promised,  self  must  be  abandoned.  But  what  self? 
Assuredly,  selfishness  and  self-will.  Not  the  exercise  of  those 
powers  of  observation  and  judgment  which  God  has  given  us 
for  this  very  purpose.  A  divine  light  is  promised,  not  to  super- 
sede, but  to  illuminate  our  understanding.  Greatly  would  that 
man  err  who  should  declare  those  tilings  only  to  be  his  duty  to 
which  he  had  been  specially  '  drawn,'  or  '  moved,'  as  the  Friends 
would  term  it.  What  can  be  conceived  more  snug  and  com- 
fortable, in  one  sense,  and  more  despicable,  in  another,  than  the 
easy,  selfish  life  which  such  a  man  might  lead,  under  pretence 
of  eminent  spirituality?  Refusing  to  read  and  meditate  on  the 
recorded  example  of  Christ's  life — for  that  is  a  mere  externalism 
— he  awaits  inertly  the  development  of  an  inward  Christ.  As 
he  takes  care  not  to  expose  himself  to  inducements  to  unpleasant 
duty— to  any  outward  teachings  calculated  to  awaken  his  con- 
science and  elevate  his  standard  of  obligation — that  conscience 
remains  sluggish,  that  standard  low.  He  is  honest,  respectable, 
sober,  we  will  say.  His  inward  voice  does  not  as  yet  urge  him 
to  anything  beyond  this.     Others,  it  is  true,  exhaust  themselves 

T2 


2^6        German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.       [b.   w. 

in  endeavours  to  benefit  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men.  They 

are  right  (he  says),  for  so  their  inward  Christ  teaches  them. 

He  is  right  {he  says),  for  so^does  not  his  inward  Christ  teach 

him.     It  is  to  be  hoped  that  a  type  of  mysticism  so  ignoble  as 

this  can  furnish  but  io-w  specimens.     Yet  such  is  the  logical 

issue  of  some  of  the  extravagant  language  we  occasionally 

hear  concerning  the  bondage  of  the  letter  and  the  freedom  of 

the  spirit.     When  the  letter  means  what  God  chooses,  and  the 

spirit  what  ive  choose,   Self  is   sure  to   exclaim,  '  The  letter 

killeth.'     If  the  light  that  is  in  thee  be  darkness,  how  great  is 

that  darkness  ! 

Such,  then,  in  imperfect  outline,  is  what  I  hold  to  be  true  on 

this  question  concerning  the  reality  and  extent  of  the  Spirit's 

influence.     As  there  are  two  worlds — the  seen  and  the  unseen 

— so  have  there  been  ever  two  revelations — an  inward  and  an 

outward — reciprocally  calling    forth    and  supplementing  each 

other.     To  undervalue  the  outward  manifestation  of  God,  in 

nature,  in  providence,  in  revelation,  because  it  is  outward — 

because  it  is  vain  without  the  inward  manifestation  of  God  in 

the  conscience  and  by  the  Spirit,  is  the  great  error  of  mysticism. 

Hence  it  has  often  disdained  means  because  they  are  not— what 

they  were  never  meant  to  be — the  end.     An  ultra-refinement  of 

spirituality  has  rejected,  as  carnal  and  unclean,  what  God  has 

commended  to  men  as  wholesome  and  helpful.     It  is  not  wise 

to  refuse  to  employ  our  feet  because  they  are  not  wings. 
****** 

But  it  is  not  mysticism  to  believe  in  a  world  of  higher  reali- 
ties, which  are,  and  ever  will  be,  beyond  sight  and  sense ;  for 
heaven  itself  will  not  abrogate  manifestation,  but  substitute  a 
more  adequate  manifestation  for  a  less.  What  thoughtful 
Christian  man  supposes  that  in  any  heaven  of  heavens,  any 
number  oi  millenniums  hence,  the  Wisdom,  Power,  or  Goodness 
of  God  will  become  manifest  to  him,  as  so  many  visible  entities, 


c.  6]  Pantheistic  Excess.  tyy 

with  form,  and  hue,  and  motion  ?  It  is  not  mysticism  to  be- 
Heve  that  the  uncreated  underhes  all  created  good.  Augustine 
will  not  be  suspected  of  pantheism  ;  and  it  is  Augustme  who 
says — '  From  a  good  man,  or  a  good  angel,  take  away  angel, 
take  away  man — and  you  find  God.'  We  may  be  realists  (as 
opposed  to  the  nominalist)  without  being  mystics.  -For  the 
surmise  of  Plato,  that  the  world  of  Appearance  subsisted  in  and 
by  a  higher  world  of  Divine  Thoughts  is  confirmed  (while  it  is 
transcended)  by  Christianity,  when  it  tells  us  of  that  Divine 
Subsistence,  that  Eternal  Word,  by  whom  and  in  whom,  all 
things  consist,  and  without  whom  was  not  anything  made  that 
is  made.  And  herein  lies  that  real,  though  often  exaggerated, 
affinity  between  Platonism  and  Christianity,  which  a  long  suc- 
cession of  mystics  have  laboured  so  lovingly  to  trace  out  and  to 
develop.  In  the  second  and  third  centuries,  in  the  fourteenth, 
and  in  the  seventeenth  ;  in  the  Christian  school  at  Alexandria, 
in  the  pulpits  of  the  Rhineland,  at  Bemerton,  and  at  Cambridge, 
Plato  has  been  the  '  Attic  Moses  '  of  the  Clements  and  the 
Taulers,  the  Norrises  and  the  Mores. 

But  when  mysticism,  in  the  person  of  Plotinus,  declares  all 
thought  essentially  one,  and  refuses  to  Ideas  any  existence  ex- 
ternal to  our  own  minds,  it  has  become  pantheistic.  So,  also, 
when  the  Oriental  mystic  tells  us  that  our  consciousness  of  not 
being  infinite  is  a  delusion  {inaya)  to  be  escaped  by  relapsing 
ecstatically  into  the  universal  Life.  Still  more  dangerous  does 
such  mysticism  become  when  it  goes  a  step  farther  and  says — 
That  sense  of  sin  which  troubles  you  is  a  delusion  also  ;  it  is 
the  infirmity  of  your  condition  in  this  phantom  world  to  suppose 
that  right  is  different  from  wrong.  Shake  off  that  dream  of 
personality,  and  you  will  see  that  good  and  evil  are  identical  in 
the  Absolute. 

In  considering  the  German  mysticism  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury it  is  natural  to  inquire,  first  of  all,  how  far  it  manifests 


278        German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^  Century.        [b.  vi. 

any  advance  beyond  that  of  preceding  periods.  An  examina- 
tion of  its  leading  principles  will  show  that  its  appearance 
marks  an  epoch  of  no  mean  moment  in  the  history  of  philo- 
sophy. These  monks  of  the  Rhineland  were  the  first  to  break 
away  from  a  long-cherished  mode  of  thought,  and  to  substitute 
a  new  and  profounder  view  of  the  relations  subsisting  between 
God  and  the  universe.  Their  memorable  step  of  progress  is 
briefly  indicated  by  saying  that  they  substituted  the  idea  of 
the  it)wianence  of  God  in  the  world  for  the  idea  of  the  emana- 
tion of  the  world  from  God.  These  two  ideas  have  given  rise 
to  two  different  forms  of  pantheism  ;  but  they  are  neither  of 
them  necessarily  pantheistic.  To  view  rightly  the  relationship 
of  God  to  the  universe  it  is  requisite  to  regard  Him  as  both 
above  it  and  within  it.  So  Revelation  taught  the  ancient 
Hebrews  to  view  their  great  '  I  am.'  On  the  one  hand,  He  had 
His  dwelling  in  the  heavens,  and  humbled  Himself  to  behold  the 
affairs  of  men ;  on  the  other,  He  was  represented  as  having  beset 
man  behind  and  before,  as  giving  life  to  all  creatures  by  the 
sending  forth  of  His  breath,  as  giving  to  man  understanding  by 
His  inspiration,  and  as  dwelling,  in  an  especial  sense,  with  the 
humble  and  the  contrite.  But  philosophy,  and  mysticism,  fre- 
quently its  purest  aspiration,  have  not  always  been  able  to 
embrace  fully  and  together  these  two  conceptions  of  transcen 
dence  and  of  immanence.  We  find,  accordingly,  that  from  the 
days  of  Dionysius  Areopagita  down  to  the  fourteenth  century, 
the  emanation  theory,  in  one  form  or  another,  is  dominant. 
The  daring  originality  of  John  Scotus  could  not  escape  from  its 
control.  It  is  elaborately  depicted  in  Dante's  Paradise.  The 
doctrine  of  immanence  found  first  utterance  with  the  Dominican 
Eckart;  not  in  timid  hints,  but  intrepid,  reckless,  sounding 
blasphemous.  What  was  false  in  Eckart's  teaching  died  out  after 
awhile ;  what  was  true,  animated  his  brother  mystics,  trans- 
migrated eventually  into  the  mind  of  Luther,  and  did  not  die. 


6]  The  Theory  of  Einanatioit.  iy() 


To  render  more  intelligible  the  position  of  the  German 
mystics  it  will  be  necessary  to  enter  into  some  farther  expla- 
nation of  the  two  theories  in  question.  The  theory  of  emanation 
supposes  the  universe  to  descend  in  successive,  widening  circles 
of  being,  from  the  Supreme — from  some  such  '  trinal,  individual' 
Light  of  lights,  as  Dante  seemed  to  see  in  his  Vision.  In  the 
highest,  narrowest,  and  most  rapid  orbits,  sing  and  shine  the 
refulgent  rows  of  Cherubim  and  Seraphim  and  Thrones.  Next 
these,  in  wider  sweep,  the  Dominations,  Virtues,  Powers. 
Below  these,  Princedoms,  Archangels,  Angels,  gaze  adoring  up- 
wards. Of  these  hierarchies  the  lowest  occupy  the  largest  circle. 
Beneath  their  lowest  begins  our  highest  sphere — the  empyrean, 
enfolding  within  its  lesser  and  still  lesser  spheres,  till  we  reach 
the  centre — '  that  dim  spot  which  men  call  earth.'  Through  the 
hierarchies  of  heaven,  and  the  corresponding  hierarchies  of 
the  church,  the  grace  of  God  is  transmitted,  stage  by  stage,  each 
order  in  its  turn  receiving  from  that  above,  imparting  to  that 
below.  This  descent  of  divine  influence  from  the  highest  point 
to  the  lowest  is  designed  to  effect  a  similar  ascent  of  the  soul 
from  the  lowest  to  the  highest.  Of  such  a  theory  John  Scotus 
Erigena  is  the  most  philosophical  exponent.  With  him  the 
restitution  of  all  things  consists  in  their  resolution  into  their 
ideal  sources  [causes  prvtiordiales).  Man  and  nature  are  re- 
deemed in  proportion  as  they  pass  from  the  actual  up  to  the 
ideal ;  for  in  his  system,  the  actual  is  not  so  much  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  ideal  as  a  fall  from  it.  So,  in  the  spirit  of  this 
theory,  the  mounting  soul,  when  it  anticipates  in  imagination 
the  redemption  of  the  travailing  universe,  will  extract  from 
music  the  very  essence  of  its  sweetness,  and  refine  that  again 
(far  above  all  delight  of  sense)  into  the  primal  idea  of  an  Eternal 
Harmony.  So  likewise,  all  form  and  colour — the  grace  of 
flowers,  the  majesty  of  mountains,  the  might  of  seas,  the  red  of 
evening  or  of  morning  clouds,  the  lustre  of  precious  stones  and 


2  So         German  Mysticism  in  the  14^^  Century.        [n.  vi. 

gold  in  the  gleaming  heart  of  mines — all  will  be  concentrated 
and  subtilized  into  an  abstract  principle  of  Beauty,  and  a  hueless 
original  of  Light.  All  the  affinities  of  things,  and  instincts  of 
creatures,  and  human  speech  and  mirth,  and  household  endear- 
ment, he  will  sublimate  into  abstract  Wisdom,  Joy,  or  Love,  and 
sink  these  abstractions  again  into  some  crystal  sea  of  the  thiid 
heaven,  that  they  may  have  existence  only  in  their  fount  and 
source — the  superessential  One. 

Very  different  is  the  doctrine  of  Immanence,  as  it  appears  in 
the  Theologia  GermaJiica,  in  Eckart,  in  Jacob  Behmen,  and  after- 
wards in  some  forms  of  modern  speculation.  The  emanation 
theory  supposes  a  radiation  from  above  ;  the  theory  of  imma- 
nence, a  self-development,  or  manifestation  of  God  from  within. 
A  geometrician  would  declare  the  pyramid  the  symbol  of  the 
one,  the  sphere  the  symbol  of  the  other.  The  former  concep- 
tion places  a  long  scale  of  degrees  between  the  heavenly  and 
the  earthly :  the  latter  tends  to  abolish  all  gradation,  and  all  dis- 
tinction. The  former  is  successive  ;  the  latter,  immediate,  simul- 
taneous. A  chemist  might  call  the  former  the  sublimate,  the 
latter  the  diluent,  of  the  Actual.  The  theory  of  immanence 
declares  God  everywhere  present  with  all  His  power — will 
realize  heaven  or  hell  in  the  present  moment — denies  that  God 
is  nearer  on  the  other  side  the  grave  than  this — equalizes 
all  external  states— breaks  down  all  steps,  all  partitions — will 
have  man  at  once  escape  from  all  that  is  not  God,  and  so  know 
and  find  only  God  everywhere.  What  are  all  those  contrasts 
that  make  warp  and  woof  in  the  web  of  time ;  what  are  riches 
and  poverty,  health  and  sickness  ;  all  the  harms  and  horrors  of 
life,  and  all  its  joy  and  peace,; — what  past  and  future,  sacred 
and  secular,  far  and  near  ?  Are  they  not  the  mere  raiment 
wherewith  our  narrow  human  thought  clothes  the  Ever-present, 
Ever-hving  One?  Phantoms,  and  utter  nothing — all  of  them  ! 
The  one  sole  reality  is  even  this — that  God  through  Christ 


c.  6.]  German  Mysticism  and  Greek.  2  8  i 

does  assume  flesh  in  every  Christian  man  ;  abolishes  inwardly 
his  creature  self,  and  absorbs  it  into  the  eternal  stillness  of  His 
own  'all-moving  Immobility.'  So,  though  the  storms  of  life 
may  beat,  or  its  suns  may  shine  upon  his  lower  nature,  his  true 
(or  uncreated)  self  is  hidden  in  God,  and  sits  already  in  the 
heavenly  places.  Thus,  while  the  Greek  Dionysius  bids  a  man 
retire  into  himself,  because  there  he  will  find  the  foot  of  that  lad- 
der of  hierarchies  which  stretches  up  to  heaven  ;  the  Germans 
bid  man  retire  into  himself  because,  in  the  depths  of  his  being, 
God  speaks  immediately  to  him,  and  will  enter  and  fill  his 
nature  if  he  makes  Him  room. 

In  spite  of  some  startling  expressions  (not  perhaps  unnatural 
on  the  first  possession  of  men  by  so  vast  a  truth),  the  advance 
o "  the  German  mysticism  on  that  of  Dionysius  or  Erigena  is 
conspicuous.  The  Greek  regards  man  as  in  need  only  of  a  cer- 
tain illumination.  The  Celt  saves  him  by  a  transformation 
from  the  physical  into  the  metaphysical.  But  the  Teuton, 
holding  fast  the  great  contrasts  of  life  and  death,  sin  and  grace, 
declares  an  entire  revolution  of  will — a  totally  new  principle  of 
life  essential.  It  is  true  that  the  German  mystics  dwell  so 
much  on  the  bringing  forth  of  the  Son  in  all  Christians  now, 
that  they  seem  to  relegate  to  a  distant  and  merely  preliminary 
position  the  historical  incarnation  of  the  Son  of  God.  V>u\ 
this  great  fact  is  always  implied,  though  less  frequently  ex- 
pressed. And  we  must  remember  how  far  the  Church  of  Rome 
had  really  banished  the  Saviour  from  human  sympathies,  by 
absorbing  to  the  extent  she  did,  his  humanity  in  his  divinity. 
Christ  was  by  her  brought  really  near  to  men  only  in  the  magical 
transformation  of  the  Sacrament,  and  was  no  true  Mediator. 
The  want  of  human  sympathy  in  their  ideal  of  Him,  forced 
them  to  have  recourse  to  the  maternal  love  of  the  Virgin,  and 
the  intercession  of  the  saints.  Unspeakable  was  the  gain, 
then,  when  the  Saviour  was  brought  from  that  awful  distance  to 


2  82         German  Mysticism  in  the  14''^*  Centnry.        [b.  vi. 

become  the  guest  of  the  soul,  and  vitally  to  animate,  here  on 
earth,  the  members  of  his  mystical  body.  Even  Eckart,  be  it 
remembered,  does  not  say,  with  the  Hegelian,  that  every  man 
is  divine  already,  and  the  divinity  of  Christ  not  different  in 
kind  from  our  own.  He  attributes  a  real  divineness  only  to  a 
certain  class  of  men — those  who  by  grace  are  transformed  from 
the  created  to  the  uncreated  nature.  It  is  not  easy  to  deter- 
mine the  true  place  of  Christ  in  his  pantheistic  system ;  but 
this  much  appears  certain,  that  Christ  and  not  man — grace, 
and  not  nature,  is  the  source  of  that  incomprehensible  deifica- 
tion Avith  which  he  invests  the  truly  perfect  and  poor  in  spirit. 

On  the  moral  character  of  Eckart,  even  the  malice  of  perse- 
cution has  not  left  a  stain.  Yet  that  unknown  God  to  which 
he  desires  to  escape  when  he  says  *  I  want  to  be  rid  of  God,' 
is  a  being  without  morality.  He  is  «<^t7Z'i?  goodness,  and  so  those 
who  have  become  identical  with  Him  '  are  indifferent  to  doing 
or  not  doing,'  says  Eckart.  I  can  no  more  call  him  good,  he 
exclaims,  than  I  can  call  the  sun  black.  In  his  system,  sep- 
arate personality  is  a  sin — a  sort  of  robbery  of  God :  it  re- 
sembles those  spots  on  the  moon,  which  the  angel  describes 
to  Adam  as  '  unpurged  vapours,  not  yet  into  her  substance 
turned.'  I  am  not  less  than  God,  he  will  say,  there  is  no  dis- 
tinction: if  I  were  not,  He  would  not  be.  *I  hesitate  to 
receive  anything  from  God — for  to  be  indebted  to  Him  would 
imply  inferiority,  and  make  a  distinction  between  Him  and  me  3 
whereas,  the  righteous  man  is,  without  distinction,  in  substance 
and  in  nature,  what  God  is.'  Here  we  see  the  doctrine  of  the 
immanence  of  God  swallowing  up  the  conception  of  his  trans- 
cendence. A  pantheism,  apparently  apathetic  and  arrogant  as 
that  of  the  Stoics,  is  the  result.  Yet,  when  we  remember  that 
Eckart  was  the  friend  of  Tauler  and  Suso,  we  cannot  but  sup- 
pose that  there  may  have  lain  some  meaning  in  such  language 
less  monstrous  than  that  which  the  words  themselves  imply. 


c.  6]  Divisions  of  Mysticism.  283 

Eckart  would  probably  apply  such  expressions,  not  to  his  actual 
self; — for  that  he  supposes  non-existent,  and  reduced  to  its  true 
nothing — but  to  the  divine  nature  which,  as  he  thought,  then 
superseded  within  him  the  annihilated  personality.  Tauler 
(and  with  him  Ruysbroek  and  Suso)  holds  in  due  combination 
the  correlative  ideas  of  transcendence  and  of  immanence. 

Such,  then,  is  one  of  the  most  important  characteristics  of 
German  mysticism  in  the  fourteenth  century.  I  have  next  to 
ascertain  in  which  of  the  leading  orders  of  mystics  Tauler 
should  be  assigned  a  place. 

'Divination,'  saith  Bacon,  *is  of  two  kinds — primitive,  and 
by  influxion.'  The  former  is  founded  on  the  belief  that  the 
soul,  when  by  abstinence  and  observances  it  has  been  purified 
and  concentrated,  has  '  a  certain  extent  and  latitude  of  pre- 
notion.'  The  latter  is  grounded  on  the  persuasion  that  the 
foreknowledge  of  God  and  of  spirits  may  be  infused  into  the 
soul  when  rendered  duly  passive  and  mirror-like.  Of  these 
two  kinds  of  divining  the  former  is  characterized  by  repose  and 
quiet,  the  latter  by  a  fervency  and  elevation  such  as  the  ancients 
styled  furor.  Now  our  mystical  divines  have  this  in  common 
with  the  diviners,  that  they  chiefly  aim  to  withdraw  the  soul 
within  itself.  They  may  be  divided  most  appropriately  after  a 
like  manner.  A  cursory  inspection  will  satisfy  any  one  that 
theopathetic  mysticism  branches  into  two  distinct,  and  often 
contrasted,  species.  There  is  the  serene  and  contemplative 
mysticism  ;  and  over  against  it,  the  tempestuous  and  the  active. 
The  former  is  comparatively  self-contained  and  intransitive; 
the  latter,  emphatically  transitive.  Its  subject  conceives  him- 
self mastered  by  a  divine  seizure.  Emotions  well-nigh  past  the 
strain  of  humanity,  make  the  chest  to  heave,  the  frame  to 
tremble ;  cast  the  man  down,  convulsed,  upon  the  earth.  Or 
visions  that  will  not  pass  away,  burn  into  his  soul  their  glories 


284        German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^  Century.        [c.  vi. 

and  their  terrors.  Or  words  that  will  not  be  kept  down,  force 
an  articulation,  with  quaking  and  with  spasms,  from  organs  no 
longer  under  his  control.  The  contemplative  mystic  has  most 
commonly  loved  best  that  side  of  Christian  truth  which  is 
nearest  to  Platonism ;  the  enthusiastic  or  practical  mystic,  that 
which  connects  it  with  Judaism.  The  former  hopes  to  realize 
within  himself  the  highest  ascents  of  faith  and  hope — nay, 
haply,  to  surpass  them,  even  while  here  below.  The  latter 
comes  forth  from  his  solitude,  with  warning,  apocalyptic  voice, 
to  shake  a  sleeping  Church.  He  has  a  word  from  the  Lord 
that  burns  as  a  fire  in  his  bones  till  it  be  spoken.  He  lifts  up 
his  voice,  and  cries,  exhorting,  commanding,  or  foretelling, 
with  the  authority  of  inspiration. 

The  Phrygian  mountaineer,  Montanus,  furnishes  the  earliest 
example,  and  a  very  striking  one,  of  this  enthusiastic  or  pro- 
phetic kind  of  mysticism.  He  and  his  followers  had  been 
cradled  in  the  fiercest  and  most  frantic  superstitions  of  heathen- 
dom. Terrible  was  Cybele,  the  mountain  mother,  throned 
among  the  misty  fastnesses  of  Ida.  Maddest  uproar  echoed 
through  the  glens  on  her  great  days  of  festival.  There  is  beat- 
ing of  drum  and  timbrel,  clashing  of  cymbals,  shrill  crying  of 
pipes  ;  incessant  the  mournful  sound  of  barbarous  horns  ;  loud, 
above  all,  the  groans  and  shrieks  and  yells  from  frenzied  votaries 
whom  the  goddess  has  possessed.  They  toss  their  heads  ; 
they  leap  ;  they  v/hirl ;  they  wallow  convulsed  upon  the  rocks, 
cutting  themselves  with  knives  ;  they  brandish,  they  hurl  their 
weapons  ;  their  worship  is  a  foaming,  raving,  rushing  to-and- 
fro,  till  the  driving  deity  flings  them  down  exhausted,  senseless. 
Among  these  demoniacs — sanguine  fleti,  2'errificas  capitimi 
quatieiites  niimine  cristas,  as  Lucretius  has  described  them — 
these  Corybantes,  or  head-tossers,  Christianity  made  its  way, 
exorcising  a  legion  of  evil  spirits.  But  the  enthusiastic  tem- 
perament was  not  expelled.     These  wild  men,  become  Chris- 


c.  6]  Excesses  of  Montanism.  285 

tians,  carried  much  of  the  old  fervour  into  the  new  faith. 
Violent  excitement,  ecstatic  transport,  oracular  utterance,  were 
to  them  the  dazzling  signs  of  the  divine  victory — of  the  forcible 
dislodgment  of  the  power  of  Darkness  by  the  power  of  Light. 
So  Montanus  readily  believes,  and  finds  numbers  to  believe, 
that  he  is  the  subject  of  a  divine  possession.  Against  the 
bloodthirsty  mob  in  the  villages  and  towns — against  a  Marcus 
Aurelius,  ordaining  massacre  from  the  high  places  of  the  Caesars 
— had  not  God  armed  his  own  with  gifts  beyond  the  common 
measure — with  rapture — with  vision — with  prophecy  ?  Yes  ! 
the  promised  Paraclete  was  indeed  among  them,  and  it  was  not 
they,  but  He,  who  spake.  So  thought  the  Montanists,  as  they 
announced  new  precepts  to  the  Church  ;  as  they  foretold  the 
gathering  judgment  of  Antichrist  and  the  dawning  triumph  of 
the  saints  ;  as  they  hastened  forth,  defiant  and  sublime,  to 
provoke  from  their  persecutors  the  martyr's  crown.  Let  us  not 
overlook  the  real  heroism  of  these  men,  while  touching  on 
their  errors.  But  their  conception  of  the  Church  of  Christ,  so 
analogous,  in  many  respects,  to  that  of  the  early  Quakers — 
•was  it  the  right  one  ?  According  to  Montanus,  the  Church  was 
to  be  maintained  in  the  world  by  a  succession  of  miraculous 
interventions.  From  time  to  time,  fresh  outpourings  of  the 
Spirit  would  inspire  fresh  companies  of  prophets  to  ordain 
ritual,  to  confute  heresy,  to  organize  and  modify  the  Church 
according  to  the  changing  necessities  of  each  period.  He 
denied  that  the  Scripture  was  an  adequate  source,  whence  to 
draw  the  refutation  of  error  and  the  new  supplies  of  truth 
demanded  by  the  exigencies  of  the  future.  As  Romanism  sets 
up  an  infallible  Pope  to  decide  concerning  truth,  and  in  fact  to 
supplement  revelation,  as  the  organ  of  the  Divine  Spirit  ever 
living  in  the  Church  ;  so  these  mystics  have  their  inspired 
teachers  and  prophets,  raised  up  from  time  to  time,  for  the  same 
purpose.     But  the  contemplative  mystics,  and  indeed  Christians 


286        German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^  Century.       [u.  vt 

generally,  borne  out,  as  we  think,  by  Scripture  and  by  history, 
deny  any  such  necessity,  and  declare  this  doctrine  of  supple- 
mentary inspiration  alien  from  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  While 
Montanus  and  his  prophetesses,  Maximilla  and  Priscilla,  were 
thus  speaking,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  to  the  country-folk  of 
Phrygia  or  to  the  citizens  of  Pepuza,  Clement  at  Alexandria 
was  teaching,  on  the  contrary,  that  we  have  the  organ  requisite 
for  finding  in  the  Scriptures  all  the  truth  we  need — that  they 
are  a  well  of  depth  sufficient,  nay  inexhaustible  ;  and  that  the 
devout  exercise  of  reason  in  their  interpretation  and  application 
is  at  once  the  discipline  and  prerogative  of  the  manhood  proper 
to  the  Christian  dispensation.  We  are  no  longer  Jews,  he 
would  say,  no  longer  children.  The  presence  of  the  Spirit  with 
us  is  a  part  of  the  ordinary  law  of  the  economy  under  which 
we  live.  It  is  designed  that  the  supernatural  shall  gradually 
vindicate  itself  as  the  natural,  in  proportion  as  our  nature  is 
restored  to  its  allegiance  to  God.  It  is  not  necessary  that  we 
should  be  inspired  in  the  same  way  as  the  sacred  writers  were, 
before  their  writings  can  be  adequately  serviceable  to  us. 

Such  was  the  opposition  in  the  second  century,  and  such  has 
it  been  in  the  main  ever  since,  between  these  two  kinds  of 
mystical  tendency.  The  Montanist  type  of  mysticism,  as  we  see 
it  in  a  Hildegard,  among  the  Quakers,  among  the  Protestant 
peasantry  of  the  Cevennes,  and  among  some  of  the  '  Friends  of 
God,'  usually  takes  its  rise  with  the  uneducated,  is  popular, 
sometimes  revolutionary.  Animated  by  its  spirit,  Carlstadt 
filled  Wittenberg  with  scandal  and  confusion  ;  and  the  Ana- 
baptist mob  reddened  the  sky  with  the  burning  libraries  of 
Osnaburg  and  Munster.  The  Alexandrian  mysticism,  so  far 
from  despising  scholarship  and  philosophy,  as  so  much  carnal 
wisdom,  desires  to  appropriate  for  Christianity  every  science  and 
every  art.  It  is  the  mysticism  of  theologians,  of  philosophers, 
and  scholars.     It  exists  as  an  important  element  in  the  theology 


c.  6]  The  good  in  Montanistn.  287 

of  Clement,  of  Origen,  and  of  Augustine.  It  assumes  still 
greater  prominence  in  a  Hugo  or  a  Richard  of  St.  Victor.  It 
obtained  its  fullest  proportions  in  these  German  mystics  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  It  refined  and  elevated  the  scholarship  of 
Reuchlin,  Ficinus,  and  Mirandola.  It  is  at  once  profound  and 
expansive  in  our  English  Platonists. 

Yet  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  the  extravagance  of  the 
enthusiastic  mysticism  has  not  its  uses,  or  that  the  serenity  of 
the  contemplative  is  always  alike  admirable.  Both  have,  in 
their  turn,  done  goodly  service.  Each  has  had  a  work  given  it 
(o  do  in  which  its  rival  would  have  failed.  The  eccentric 
impetuosity  of  Montanism,  ancient  and  modern,  has  done  good, 
directly  and  indirectly,  by  breaking  through  traditional  routine 
— by  protesting  against  the  abuses  of  human  authority — by 
stirring  many  a  sleeping  question,  and  daring  many  an  untried 
path  of  action.  On  the  other  hand,  the  contemplative  mysticism 
has  been  at  times  too  timid,  too  fond  of  an  elegant  or  devout, 
but  still  unworthy,  ease.  The  Nicodemuses  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  the  Bri(^onnets  and  the  Gerard  Roussels,  were  nearly 
all  of  them  Platonists.  They  were  men  whose  mysticism 
raised  them  above  the  wretched  externalism  of  Rome,  and  at  the 
same  time  furnished  them  with  an  ingenious  excuse  for  abiding 
safely  in  her  communion.  *  What,'  they  would  say,  '  are  the 
various  forms  of  the  letter,  to  the  unity  of  the  Spirit  ?  Can  v/e 
not  use  the  signs  of  Romanism  in  the  spirit  of  Protestantism — 
since,  to  the  spiritual  and  the  wise,  this  outward  usage  or  that, 
is  of  small  matter?'  The  enthusiastic  mysticism  tends  to  mul- 
tiply, and  the  contemplative  to  diminish,  positive  precept  and 
ordinance.  The  former  will  sometimes  revolt  against  one  kind 
of  prescription  only  to  devise  a  new  one  of  its  own.  So  the 
followers  of  Fox  exchanged  surplice  and  *  steeple-house  '  for  a 
singularity  of  hat,  coat,  and  pronouns.  The  contemplative 
mystic  loves  to  inform  his  common  life  with  the  mysterious  and 


2  88         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4*^^  Century.        [b. 


the  divine.  Certain  especial  sanctities  he  has,  but  nothing 
unsanctified ;  and  he  covers  his  table  with  an  altar-cloth,  and 
curtains  his  bed  with  a  chasuble,  and  drinks  out  of  a  chalice 
every  day  of  his  life.  A  Montanus  commends  celibacy ;  an 
Origen  sees  typified  in  marriage  the  espousals  of  the  Church. 
The  zeal  of  the  enthusiastic  mysticism  is  ever  on  the  watch  for 
signs — expects  a  kingdom  coming  with  observation — is  almost 
always  Millenarian.  The  contemplatist  regards  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  as  internal,  and  sees  in  the  history  of  souls  a  continual 
day  of  judgment.  The  one  courts  the  vision  and  hungers  after 
marvel :  the  other  strives  to  ascend,  above  all  form  and  lan- 
guage, from  the  valley  of  phantasmata  to  the  silent  heights  of 
'iraageless  contemplation.'  The  one  loves  violent  contrasts, 
and  parts  off  abruptly  the  religious  world  and  the  irreligious, 
the  natural  and  the  supernatural.  The  other  loves  to  harmonize 
these  opposites,  as  far  as  may  be — would  win  rather  than  rebuke 
the  world — would  blend,  in  the  daily  life  of  faith,  the  human 
with  the  divine  working  :  and  delights  to  trace  everywhere 
types,  analogies,  and  hidden  unity,  rather  than  diversity  and 
strife.  The  Old  Testament  has  been  always  the  favourite  of 
the  prophetic  mysticism  :  the  contemplative  has  drunk  most 

deeply  into  the  spirit  of  the  New. 

****** 

Mysticism,  as  exhibited  in  Tauler's  sermons,  is  much  more 
likely  to  win  appreciation  at  the  hands  of  English  readers  than 
mysticism  in  the  Tlicologia  Germanica.  The  principles  which 
were  there  laid  down  as  bare  abstractions  are  here  warmed  by 
sunshine  and  clothed  with  verdure.  To  the  theory  of  mysti- 
cism we  find  added  many  a  suggestive  hint  concerning  its 
practice.  There  were  general  statements  in  the  Thcologia  Ger- 
manica so  dun,  so  vast,  so  ultra-human,  that  many  readers 
would  be  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  they  could  possibly 
become  a  practice  or  a  joy  in  any  soul  alive.     In  the  sermons, 


c.  6.]  Taulers  Sermons.  289 

a  brother  mystic  supplies  the  requisite  quahfication,  and  shows 
that  the  old  Teutonic  knight  had,  after   all,  a  meaning  not  so 
utterly  remote  from  all  the  ways  and  wants  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Brought  out  to  view  by  Tauler's  fervour,  his  invisible  ink 
becomes  a  legible  character.     The  exhortations  of  the  pulpil 
thus  interpret  the  soliloquy  of  the  cell;  and  when  the  preacher 
illuminates  mysticism  with  the  many-coloured  lights  of  meta- 
phor  and  passion — when  he  interrogates,   counsels,  entreats, 
rebukes,  we  seem  to  return  from  the  confines  of  the  nameless, 
voiceless  Void  to  a  region  within  the  rule  of  the  sun,  and  to 
beings  a  little  lower  than  the  angels.     It  will  reassure  many 
readers  to  discover  iiom  these  sermons  that  the  mystics  whom 
Tauler  represents  are  by  no  means  so  infatuated  as  to  disdain 
those  external  aids  which  God  has  provided,  or  which  holy  men 
of  old  have  handed  down — that  they  do  not  call  history  a  husk, 
social  worship  a  vain  oblation,  or  decent  order  bondage  to  the 
letter — that  when  they  speak  of  transcending  time  and  place, 
they  pretend  to  no  new  commandment,  and  do  but  repeat  a 
truth  old  as  all  true  religion — that  they  are  on  their  guard, 
beyond  most  men,  against  that  spiritual  pride  which  some  think 
inseparable   from  the  mystical    aspiration — that  so  far   from 
encouraging  the  morbid  introspection  attributed  to  them,  it  is 
their  first  object  to  cure  men  of  that   malady — that  instead  of 
formulating  their   own  experience   as  a  test  and  regimen  for 
others,  they  tell  men  to  sit  down  in  the  lowest  place    till  God 
calls  them  to  come  up  higher — and  finally,  that  they  are   men 
who  have  mourned  for  the  sins,  and  comforted  the  sorrows 
of  their  fellows,  with  a  depth  and  compass  of  lowly  love  such 
as  should  have  disarmed  every  unfriendly  judgment,  had  their 
errors  been  as  numerous  as  their  excellence  is  extraordinary. 

Any  one  who  has  attentively  read  Tauler's  discourses  as  now 
accessible  may  consider  himself  familiar  with  the  substance  of 
Tauler's  preaching.     From  whatever  part  of  Scripture  history, 

VOL.  I.  U 


290         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [n.  vi. 

prophecy,  song,  or  precept,  his  text  be  taken,  the  sermons,  we 
may  be  sure,  will  contain  similar  exhortations  to  self-abandon- 
ment, the  same  warnings  against  a  barren  externalism,  the  same 
directions  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  inward  Advent  of  the 
Lord  in  the  Ground  of  the  Soul.  The  allegorical  interpreta- 
tion, universal  in  those  days,  rendered  easy  such  an  ever-varied 
presentation  of  a  single  theme.  Did  the  multitude  go  out  into 
the  wilderness  to  the  preaching  of  John  ?  We  are  to  go  forth 
into  the  wilderness  of  the  spiritual  life.  Did  Joseph  and  Mary 
seek  their  son  in  vain  among  their  friends  and  acquaintance, 
and  find  him  in  his  Father's  house  ?  We  also  must  retire  to 
the  inmost  sanctuary  of  the  soul,  and  be  found  no  more  in  the 
company  of  those  hindering  associates,  our  own  Thoughts,  Will, 
and  Understanding.  Did  Christ  say  to  Mary  Magdalen,  '  I 
have  not  yet  ascended  to  my  Father  ?'  He  meant,  '  I  have  not 
yet  been  spiritually  raised  within  thy  soul  j'  for  he  himself  had 
never  left  the  Father. 

From  the  sermon  on  the  fifteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity  I 
select  a  passage  which  contains  in  two  sentences  the  kernel  of 
Tauler's  doctrine — the  principle  which,  under  a  thousand 
varieties  of  illustration  and  application,  makes  the  matter  of  all 
his  sermons.  '  When,  through  all  manner  of  exercises  the  out- 
ward man  has  been  converted  into  the  inward,  reasonable  man, 
and  thus  the  two,  that  is  to  say,  the  powers  of  the  senses  and 
the  powers  of  the  reason,  are  gathered  up  into  the  very  centre 
of  the  man's  being — the  unseen  depths  of  his  spirit  wherein  lies 
the  image  of  God, — and  thus  he  flings  himself  into  the  divine 
abyss,  in  which  he  dwelt  eternally  before  he  was  created ;  then 
when  God  finds  the  man  thus  simply  and  nakedly  turned 
towards  Him,  the  Godhead  bends  down  and  descends  into  the 
depths  of  the  pure,  waiting  soul,  and  transforms  the  created 
soul,  drawing  it  up  into  the  uncreated  essence,  so  that  the  spirit 
becomes  one  with  Him,     Could  such  a  man  behold  himself,  he 


c.  6.]  TJie  Ground  of  the  Soul — zvhat  is  it  f         291 

would  see  himself  so  noble  that  he  would  fancy  himself  God, 
and  see  himself  a  thousand  times  nobler  than  he  is  in  himself, 
and  would  perceive  all  the  thoughts  and  purposes,  words  and 
works,  and  have  all  the  knowledge  of  all  men  that  ever  were.' 

An  explanation  of  this  extract  will  be  a  summary  of  Tauler's 
theology.  First  of  all,  it  is  obvious  that  he  regards  human 
nature  as  tripartite — it  is  a  temple  in  three  compartments  : 
there  is  the  outer  court  of  the  senses  ;  there  is  the  inner  court 
of  the  intellectual  nature,  where  the  powers  of  the  soul,  busy 
with  the  images  of  things,  are  ever  active,  where  Reason, 
Memory,  Will,  move  to  and  fro,  as  a  kind  of  mediating  priests; 
there  is,  lastly,  and  inmost,  a  Holy  of  Holies — the  Ground  of 
the  Soul,  as  the  mystics  term  it. 

'Yes!'  exclaims  some  critic,  'this  Ground^  of  which  we 
hear  so  much,  which  the  mystics  so  labour  to  describe,  what 
is  it,  after  all?'  Let  Tauler  answer.  He  here  calls  it  'the 
very  centre  of  man's  being' — '  the  unseen  depths  of  his  spirit, 
wherein  lies  the  image  of  God.'  I  believe  that  he  means  to 
indicate  by  these  and  other  names  that  element  in  our  nature 
by  virtue  whereof  we  are  moral  agents,  wherein  lies  that 
idea  of  a  right  and  a  wrong  which  finds  expression  (though 
not  always  adequate)  in  the  verdicts  of  conscience — that 
Synderesis  (to  use  an  Aristotelian  word)  of  which  the  Syneidesis 
is  the  particular  action  and  voice — that  part  of  our  finite 
nature  which  borders  on  the  infinite — that  gate  through  which 
God  enters  to  dwell  with  man.  Nor  is  the  belief  in  such  a  principle 
byany  means  peculiar  to  the  mystics ;  men  at  the  farthest  remove, 
by  temperament  and  education,  from  mysticism,  are  yet  generally 
found  ready  to  admit  that  we  can  only  approach  a  solution  oi 
our  great  difficulties  concerning  predestination  and  free  will,  by 
supposing  that  there  is  a  depth  in  our  nature  where  the  divine 
and  human  are  one.  This  is  Tauler's  spark  and  potential 
divinity  of  man — that  face  of  man's  soul  wherein  God  shineth 

u  2 


292         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'   Century.        [r.  -n. 

always,  whether  the  man  be  aware  thereof  or  not.  This,  to 
speak  Platonically,  is  the  ideal  part  of  man — that  part  of  him 
whereby,  as  a  creature,  he  participates  in  the  Word  by  whose 
thought  and  will  all  creatures  exist.  It  is  the  unlost  and 
inalienable  nobleness  of  man — that  from  which,  as  Pascal  says, 
his  misery  as  well  as  his  glory  proceeds — that  which,  according 
to  Tauler,  must  exist  even  in  hell,  and  be  converted  into  the 
sorrow  there.  The  Christian  Platonist  expresses  his  conception 
of  the  consummated  redemption  of  man  by  saying  that  he  is 
restored  to  his  original  idea — becomes  what  he  was  designed  to 
be  before  sin  marred  him — puts  off  the  actual  sinful  self,  and 
puts  on  the  truer  primal  self  which  exists  only  in  God.  In  this 
sense  Eckart  says,  '  I  shall  be  sorry  if  I  am  not  younger  to- 
morrow than  I  am  to-day — that  is,  a  step  nearer  to  the  source 
whence  I  came' — away  from  this  Eckart  to  the  Divlnfc  Idea 
of  man. 

Such,  then,  in  this  Ground.  Next,  how  is  the  lapse,  or 
transit  into  it,  effected  ?  Tauler  reminds  us  that  many  men  live 
as  though  God  were  not  in  this  way  nearer  to  them  than  they 
are  to  themselves.  They  possess  inevitably  this  image — this 
immediate  receptivity  of  God,  but  they  never  think  of  their 
prerogative,  never  seek  Him  in  whom  they  live  and  move. 
Such  men  live  in  the  outside  of  themselves — in  the  sensuous  or 
intellectual  nature  ;  but  never  lift  the  curtain  behind  which  are 
the  rays  of  the  Shekinah.  It  will  profit  me  nothing,  says  Tauler, 
to  be  a  king,  if  I  know  it  not.  So  the  soul  must  break  away  from 
outward  things,  from  passion  and  self,  and  in  abandonment  and 
nothingness  seek  God  immediately.  When  God  is  truly  found, 
then  indeed  the  simplified,  self  annihilated  soul,  is  passive.  But 
the  way  thereto,  what  action  it  demands,  what  strong  crying  and 
tears,  what  trampling  out  of  subtle,  seemly,  darling  sins  ! 

First  of  all,  the  senses  must  be  mastered  by,  and  absorbed 
in,  the  powers  of  the  soul.  Then  must  these  very  powers  them- 
selves— all  reasonings,  willings,  hopings,  fearings,  be  absorbed 


c.  6.]  The  Mystic's  Defejice.  293 

in  a  simple  sense  of  the  Divine  presence — a  sense  so  still,  so 
blissful,  as  to  annihilate  before  and  after,  obliterate  self,  and  sink 
the  soul  in  a  Love,  whose  height  and  depth,  and  length  and 
breadth,  passing  knowledge,  shall  fill  it  with  all  the  fulness  of  God. 

*  What !'  it  m;iy  be  said,  '  and  is  this  death — not  of  sin 
merely,  but  of  nature — the  demand  of  your  mysticism  ?  Is  all 
peace  hollow  which  is  not  an  utter  passivity — without  know- 
ledge, without  will,  without  desire — a  total  blank  ?' 

Not  altogether  so,  the  mystic  will  reply.  These  powers  of 
the  soul  must  cease  to  act,  in  as  far  as  they  belong  to  self;  but 
they  are  not  destroyed :  their  absorption  in  the  higher  part  of 
our  nature  is  in  one  sense  a  death;  in  another,  their  truest  Hfe. 
They  die ;  but  they  live  anew,  animated  by  a  principle  of  life 
that  comes  directly  from  the  Father  of  lights,  and  from  the  Light 
who  is  the  life  of  men.  That  in  them  which  is  fit  to  live, 
survives.  Still  are  they  of  use  in  this  lower  world,  and  still  to  be 
employed  in  manifold  service ;  but,  shall  I  say  it  ?  they  are  no 
longer  quite  the  same  powers.  Tney  are,  as  it  were,  the  glori- 
fied spirits  of  those  powers.  They  are  risen  ones.  They  are 
in  this  world,  but  not  of  it.  Their  life  has  passed  into  the  life 
which,  by  slaying,  has  preserved  and  exalted  them.  So  have  I 
heard  of  a  nightingale,  challenged  by  a  musician  with  his  lute  ; 
and  when  all  nature's  skill  was  vain  to  rival  the  swift  and 
doubling  and  redoubling  mazes  and  harmonies  of  mortal  science, 
the  bird,  heart-broken,  dropt  dead  on  the  victorious  lute ; — and 
yet,  not  truly  dead,  for  the  spirit  of  music  which  throbbed  in 
that  melodious  throat  had  now  passed  into  the  lute  ;  and  ever 
afterward  breathed  into  its  tones  a  wild  sweetness  such  as  never 
Thessalian  valley  heard  before — the  consummate  blending  of 
the  woodland  witchery  with  the  finished  height  of  art. 

*  You  see,'  our  mystic  continues — and  let  us  hear  him,  for  he 
has  somewhat  more  to  say,  and  to  the  purpose,  as  it  seems — 
*  you  see  that  we  are  no  enemies  to  the  symbol  and  the  figure  in 
their  proper  place,  any  more  than  we  are  to  the  arguments  of 


294         Gennan  Mysticism  in  the  \a;^  Century.        [b.  vi. 

reason.  But  there  are  three  considerations  which  I  and  my 
brethren  would  entreat  you  to  entertain.  First  of  all,  that 
logical  distinctions,  and  all  forms  of  imagery,  must  of  necessity 
be  transcended  when  we  contemplate  directly  that  Being  who  is 
above  time  and  space,  before  and  after, — the  universal  Presence, 
— the  dweller  in  the  everlasting  Now.  In  the  highest  states  of 
the  soul,  when  she  is  concentrated  on  that  part  of  her  which 
links  her  with  the  infinite,  when  she  clings  most  immediately  to 
the  Father  of  spirits,  all  the  slow  technicahties,  and  the  processes 
and  the  imaginations  of  the  lower  powers,  must  inevitably  be 
forgotten.  Have  you  never  known  times  when,  quite  apart 
from  any  particular  religious  means,  your  soul  has  been  filled, 
past  utterance,  with  a  sense  of  the  divine  presence, — when 
emotion  has  overflowed  all  reasoning  and  all  words,  and  a 
certain  serene  amazement — a  silent  gaze  of  wonder — has  taken 
the  place  of  all  conclusions  and  conceptions  ?  Some  interrup- 
tion came,  or  some  reflex  act  dissolved  the  spell  of  glory  and  re- 
called you  to  yourself,  but  could  not  rob  you  of  your  blessing. 
There  remained  a  divine  tranquillity,  in  the  strength  whereof 
your  heaviest  trouble  had  grown  lighter  than  the  grasshopper, 
and  your  hardest  duty  seemed  as  a  cloud  before  the  winds  of 
the  morning.  In  that  hour,  your  soul  could  find  no  language  ; 
but  looking  back  upon  it,  you  think  if  that  unutterable  longing 
and  unutterable  rest  could  have  found  speech,  it  would  have 
been  in  words  such  as  these — "  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but 
Thee  ?  and  there  is  none  upon  earth  that  I  desire  beside  Thee." 
'  Then  again,  we  would  have  you  consider  that  the  mere  con- 
clusions of  the  intellect,  the  handiwork  of  imagination,  the 
effervescence  of  sentiment,  yea,  sensible  delight  in  certain 
religious  exercises — all  these  things,  though  religion's  hand- 
maidens, are  not  religion  herself.  Sometimes  they  are  delusive  ; 
always  are  they  dangerous,  if  they,  rather  than  God,  become  in 
any  way  our  dependence.     If  the  heart — the  central  fount  of 


c.  6]  The  Mystics  Defence.  295 

life's  issues — be  not  God's,  what  avail  the  admitted  proposiiions, 
and  touching  pictures,  and  wafts  of  sweetness — the  mere  furni- 
ture, adornment,  and  incense,  of  the  outer  courts  of  thy  nature  ? 
Christ  in  thy  soul,  and  not  the  truth  about  Him  in  thy  brain, 
is  thy  life's  life ;  and  his  agony  of  love  must  pierce  thee  some- 
what deeper  than  the  pathos  of  a  tragedy.  There  are  those  who 
live  complacently  on  the  facilities  and  enjoyments  they  have  in 
certain  practices  of  devotion,  when  all  the  while  it  is  rather  they 
themselves,  as  thus  devout,  and  not  their  Lord,  whom  they  love. 
Some  such  are  not  yet  Christians  at  all.  Others,  who  are,  have 
yet  to  learn  that  those  emotions  they  set  such  store  by,  belong, 
most  of  them,  to  the  earliest  and  lowest  stages  of  the  Christian 
life.  The  lotus-flowers  are  not  the  Nile.  There  are  those  who 
violently  excite  the  imagination  and  the  feeling  by  long  gazing 
on  the  crucifix — by  picturing  the  torments  of  martyrs — by  per- 
forming repeated  acts  of  Contrition, — by  trying  to  wish  to 
appropriate  to  themselves,  for  Christ's  sake,  all  the  suft'erings  of 
all  mankind — by  praying  for  a  love  above  that  of  all  seraphim, 
and  do  often,  in  wrestling  after  such  extraordinary  gifts,  and 
harrowing  their  souls  with  such  sensuous  horrors,  work  out  a 
mere  passion  of  the  lower  nature,  followed  by  melancholy  col- 
lapse, and  found  pitiably  wanting  in  the  hour  of  trial.'  In 
these  states  does  it  ouenest  happen  that  the  phantoms  of  imagi- 
nation are  mistaken  for  celestial  manifestations ;  and  forms 
which  belong  to  middle  air,  for  shiny  ones  from  the  third 
heaven.  I  have  been  told  that  astronomers  have  sometimes 
seen  in  the  field  of  their  glass,  floating  globes  of  light — as  it 
seemed,  new  planets  swimming  within  their  ken  ;  and  these 
were  but  flying  specks  of  dust,  hovering  in  the  air ;  but  magni- 

*  Nicole,  in  his  Traiii  de  la  Priire,  testant  folk,  but  especially  to  the 
describes  and  criticises  this  style  of  devotees  of  the  cloister.  Those  who 
devotion.  It  must  always  be  borne  in  have  some  acquaintance  with  the  fan- 
mind  that  the  warnings  of  Tauler  with  tastic  excesses  he  combats,  will  cot 
regard  to  the  image  and  the  symbol  think  his  language  too  strong. 
are  addressed,  not  to  »is  sober   Pro- 


296         Gennau  Mysticism  in  the   lA^'"  Century.        [b.  vi. 

fied  and  made  luminous  by  the  lenses  through  which  they 
looked,  and  by  the  reflection  of  the  light.  The  eye  of  the  mind 
may  be  visited  by  similar  illusions.  I  counsel  all,  therefore, 
that  they  ask  only  for  grace  sufficient  against  present  evil,  and 
covet  not  great  things,  but  be  content  with  such  measures  of 
assurance  and  sensible  delight  as  God  shall  think  safe  for  them ; 
and  that,  above  all,  they  look  not  at  His  gifts  in  themselves, 
but  out  of  themselves,  to  Him,  the  Giver. 

'  The  third  consideration  I  have  to  urge,  in  justification  of 
precepts  which  appear  to  you  unnatural,  is  this : — there  are 
certain  trials  and  desolations  of  soul,  to  which  the  best  are  ex- 
posed, wherein  all  subordinate  acts  are  impossible ;  and  then 
happy  is  he  who  has  never  exalted  such  helps  above  their  due 
place.  I  scarcely  know  how  to  make  myself  understood  to  any 
save  those  who  have  been  at  some  time  on  the  edge,  at  least, 
of  those  unfathomable  abysses.  Good  men  of  prosperous  and 
active  life  may  scarcely  know  them.  Few  who  have  lived  much 
in  retirement,  with  temperament  meditative,  and  perhaps  melan- 
choly, have  altogether  escaped.  There  are  times  when,  it  may 
be  that  some  great  sorrow  has  torn  the  mind  away  from  its 
familiar  supports,  and  laid  level  those  defences  which  in  pros- 
perity seemed  so  stable — when  the  most  rooted  c(  nv'ctions  of 
the  reason  seem  rottenness,  and  the  blossom  of  our  heavenward 
imaginations  goes  up  before  that  blast  as  dust — when  our  works 
and  joys  and  hopes,  with  all  their  multitude  and  pomp  and 
glory,  seem  to  go  down  together  into  the  pit,  and  the  soul  is 
left  as  a  garden  that  hath  no  water,  and  as  a  wandering  bird 
cast  out  of  the  nest — when,  instead  of  our  pleasant  pictures,  we 
have  about  us  only  doleful  creatures  among  ruins — when  a 
spirit  of  judgment  and  a  spirit  of  burning  seem  to  visit  the  city 
of  the  heart,  and  in  that  day  of  trouble  and  of  treading  down 
and  of  perplexity,  the  noise  of  viols,  and  the  mirth  of  the  tabret, 
and  the  joy  of  the  harp,  are  silent  as  the  grave.     Now,  I  say, 


c.  6-1  The  Mystic's  Defence.  297 

blessed  is  the  man  who,  when  cast  into  this  utter  wretchedness, 
far  away  from  all  creatures  and  from  all  comfort,  can  yet  be 
willing,  amidst  all  his  tears  and  anguish,  there  to  remain  as 
long  as  God  shall  please — who  seeks  help  from  no  creature — 
who  utters  his  complaint  to  the  ear  of  God  alone — who  still, 
with  ever-strengthening  trust,  is  ready  to  endure  till  self  shall 
have  been  purged  out  by  the  fires  of  that  fathomless  annihilation 
— who,  crying  out  of  the  depths,  while  the  Spirit  maketh  inter- 
cession within  him  with  groanings  that  cannot  be  uttered,  shall 
presently  be  delivered  when  the  right  time  hath  come,  and  re- 
joice in  that  glorious  liberty  of  the  children  of  God,  wherein 
they  are  nothing  and  He  is  all  !' 

Now,  somewhat  thus,  I  think,  would  that  class  of  mystics 
whom  Tauler  represents,  reply  to  the  very  natural  objections 
urged  by  many  in  our  times.  Nor  does  such  reply,  so  far, 
seem  to  me  either  unsatisfactory  in  itself,  or  in  any  way  con- 
trary to  Scripture.  It  is  with  the  aim,  and  under  the  qualifi- 
cations, I  have  endeavoured  to  set  forth,  that  these  mystics 
would  refuge  the  soul  in  a  height  above  reasonings,  outward 
means  and  methods,  in  a  serenity  and  an  abstraction  wherein 
the  subtlest  distinctions  and  most  delicate  imaginations  would 
seem  too  gross  and  sensuous — where  (as  in  Endymion's  ecstasy) 

'  Essences 
Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees, 
Meant  but  to  fertilize  our  earthly  root, 
And  make  our  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 
Into  the  bloom  of  heaven." 

On  the  latter  part  of  the  extract  given  just  now  I  have  not 
yet  commented.  It  suggests  a  question  of  no  small  moment. 
What,  it  will  be  asked,  is  the  relation  sustained  by  the  Saviour 
of  mankind  to  this  mystical  process — this  drawing  up  of  the 
created  soul  into  the  uncreated  essence  ?  Is  not  a  blank  ab- 
straction— an  essential  nothing,  substituted  for  the  Son  of  man? 
How  does  the  abstract  Essence  iu  which  Tauler  would  sink  the 


298        German  Mysticism  in  the  14^'''  Century.        [b.  vi. 

soul,  differ  from  the  abstract  Essence  or  super-essential  Unity 
in  which  a  Plotinus  would  lose  himself,  or  from  that  Divine 
substance  in  which  the  pantheistic  Sufis  sought  to  dissolve 
their  personality  ?  In  this  region  (confessedly  above  distinction), 
the  mystic  cannot,  by  his  own  admission,  distinguish  one 
abstraction  fiom  the  other.  There  is  a  story  of  a  lover  who, 
Leander-like,  swam  nightly  across  a  strait  to  visit  the  lady 
of  his  heart.  A  light  which  she  exhibited  on  the  shore  was 
the  beacon  of  the  adventurous  swimmer.  But  two  brothers 
(cruel  as  those  who  murdered  Isabella's  lover  in  the  wood) 
removed  the  light  one  dark  and  stormy  night,  and  placed  it  in 
a  boat  anchored  not  near  shore,  but  in  mid-waters,  where  the 
strait  was  broadest.  Their  victim  struggled  as  long  as  mortal 
strength  might  endure,  towards  the  treacherous  light — farther 
and  farther  out — into  the  ocean  which  engulphed  him.  Have 
not  the  mystics,  in  like  manner,  shifted  the  beacon  and  substi- 
tuted an  expanse — an  abyss,  as  the  object  of  man's  efibrt,  in- 
stead of  that  love  and  sympathy  which  await  him  in  the  heart 
of  the  Son  of  man  ? 

Can  it  be  possible  that  the  best  thing  to  do  with  a  revelation 
of  God,  now  we  have  one,  is  to  throw  it  behind  our  backs  ? 
Now  that  the  light  the  wisest  heathen  longed  for  has  come,  are 
we  to  rid  ourselves  of  it,  with  all  speed,  and  fly,  like  Eckart, 
from  the  known  to  the  old,  tinknown  God  ?  To  do  this,  is  to 
account  as  foolishness  the  wisdom  of  God  manifest  in  the  flesh- 
Is  it  not  all — as  the  enemies  of  Quietism  used  to  say — a  device 
of  the  Devil  ?  Does  it  not  look  as  though  the  Arch-enemy, 
unable  to  undo  the  work  of  redemption,  had  succeeded,  by  a 
master-stroke  of  policy,  in  persuading  men  to  a  false  spirituality, 
which  should  consist  in  obliterating  the  facts  of  that  redemption 
from  their  own  minds  as  completely  as  though  it  had  never 
been  wrought? 

Now  it  is  much  better,  I  think,  to  put  objections  like  these 


c.  6.]  Objections  answered.  2gc) 

in  all  their  strength,  and  to  give  them  fair  hearing.  They  will 
occur  to  many  persons  in  the  reading  of  these  sermons.  They 
will  awaken  a  distrust  and  a  perplexity  which  are  not  to  be 
talked  down  by  high  words,  or  by  telling  men  that  if  they  do 
not  sufficiently  admire  these  mystics,  so  much  the  worse  for 
them.  One  of  the  objections  thus  urged  is  logically  unanswer- 
able. If  Eckart  and  Plotinus  both  succeed  in  reducing  their 
minds  to  a  total  emptiness  of  all  memory,  knowledge,  and 
desire,  in  order  to  contemplate  a  super-essential  Void,  equally 
blank,  the  Christian  and  the  heathen  pantheist  are  indistin- 
guishable. Vacuum  A,  would  be  a  vacuum  no  longer  if  it 
contained  anything  to  distinguish  it  from  vacuum  B  ;  and  to 
escape,  in  the  most  absolute  sense,  all  distinction,  is  Eckart's 
highest  ambition.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered,  first  of  all,  that 
Tauler  does  not  go  so  far  as  Eckart  in  his  impatience  of  every- 
thing intelligible,  conceivable,  or  utterable.  And  next,  that, 
happily,  neither  Eckart,  Tauler,  nor  any  man,  can  really  reduce 
himself  to  that  total  nescience  and  apathy  demanded  by  the 
theory  which  makes  personality  a  sin,  knowledge  an  infirmity, 
imagination  a  folly.  Humanity  is  still  too  strong  for  any  such 
de-humanizing  ideal.  The  Absolute  of  Tauler  is  not,  like  the 
Absolute  of  Plotinus,  an  abstraction  above  morality.  His  link 
between  finite  and  infinite — his  image  of  God,  is  moral,  not 
metaphysical  merely.  It  is  his  knowledge,  first  of  all,  of  God 
in  Christ  which  enables  him  to  contemplate  the  Infinite,  not  as 
boundless  being,  but  as  unfathomable  love.  So  he  stands  firm 
on  the  grand  Christian  foundation,  and  the  Son  is  his  way  to 
the  Father.  Following  Dionysius,  that  arch-mystagogue,  he 
does  indeed  invite  the  trembling  soul  into  the  shadows  of  a 
Divine  darkness,  wherein  no  specific  attribute  or  act  is  percep- 
tible to  the  baffled  sight.  But  across  that  profound  obscure 
and  utter  silence,  there  floats,  perceptible,  some  incense  from 
the  censer,  of  the  Elder  Brother — the  eternal  High  Priest.     It 


300        GeruicDi  Mysticism  in  the  14^'^  Century.       [e.  vi. 

is  a  darkness,  but  such  an  one  as  we  have  when  we  close  our 
eyes  after  spectacles  of  glory — a  darkness  luminous  and  living 
with  the  hovering  residue  of  splendours  visible  no  longer.  It 
is  a  silence,  but  such  an  one  as  we  have  after  sweet  music — a 
silence  still  stirred  by  inward  echoes,  and  repetitions,  and  float- 
ing fragments  of  melodies  that  have  ceased  to  fall  upon  the  ear. 
It  seems  a  chilling  purity,  a  hueless  veil — but  such  a  veil  as 
the  snowfall  lays  upon  an  Alpine  church-yard,  hiding  all  colour 
but  not  all  form,  and  showing  us  still  where  the  crosses  are. 
By  their  fruits  we  know  these  mystics.  No  men  animated  by 
a  love  so  Christ-like  as  was  theirs,  could  have  put  an  abstraction 
in  the  place  of  Christ. 

With  regard  to  the  work  of  Christ,  Tauler  acknowledges 
(more  readily  than  George  Fox)  that  the  divine  element  or 
inward  light  in  man  must  remain  a  mere  surmise  or  longing, 
apart  from  the  historic  manifestation  of  God  in  the  flesh.  It  is 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  who  at  once  interprets  to  the  soul,  while  He 
satisfies,  its  own  restless  heavenward  desire.  It  is  His  grace 
alone  which  makes  a  mere  capacity  of  God,  a  possession — a 
mere  potentiality,  actual.  The  view  of  Christ  which  Tauler 
loves  to  present  most  frequently  is  that  expressed  by  those 
passages  of  Scripture  which  speak  of  Him  as  the  first-born 
among  many  brethren,  and  which  remind  us  that  both  He 
that  sanctifieth  and  they  that  are  sanctified  are  all  of  one.  He 
would  say  that  the  Saviour  now  lives  upon  the  earth,  in  the 
person  of  all  true  believers  ;  and  that,  in  a  subordinate  sense, 
the  Word  is  being  continually  made  flesh,  as  Christ  is  formed 
in  the  hearts  of  Christians.  With  one  voice  Eckart  and  Tauler, 
Ruysbroek  and  Suso,  exclaim — '  Arise,  O  man  !  realize  the  end. 
of  thy  being  :  make  room  for  God  within  thy  soul,  that  he  may 
bring  forth  his  Son  within  thee.' 

The  Saviour's  obedience  unto  death  is  regarded  by  Tauler, 
rather  in  its  exemplary,  than  in  its  propitiatory  aspect.     Very 


c.  6]  Selj-sptritualizing  a  Mistake.  301 

important,  as  characteristic  of  his  theology,  is  the  distinction 
he  makes  between  our  union  to  the  humanity  of  Christ,  and 
our  union  to  his  divinity.  As  man,  He  is  the  ideal  of  humanity 
— the  exemplar  of  self-surrender.  All  that  He  received  from 
the  Father  was  yielded  up  to  Him  in  that  absolute  devotedness 
which  all  His  brethren  imitate.  We  are  united  to  His  humanity 
in  proportion  as  we  follow  the  obedience  and  self-sacrifice  of  His 
earthly  life.  But  above  this  moral  conformity  to  His  example, 
Tauler  sets  another  and  a  higher  union  to  His  divinity.  And 
this  union  with  the  Godhead  of  the  Son  is  not  a  superior 
degree  of  moral  likeness  to  Him,  it  is  rather  an  approximation 
to  another  mode  of  existence.  It  is  an  inward  transit  from  our 
actual  to  our  ideal  self — not  to  the  moral  ideal  (for  that  is 
already  realized  in  proportion  as  we  are  united  to  His  humanity), 
but  to  our  Platonic  archetypal  ideal.  This  higher  process  of 
union  to  the  Word,  or  return  to  our  ideal  place  in  Him,  con- 
sists in  escaping  from  all  that  distinguishes  us  as  creatures  on 
this  earth — in  denuding  ourselves  of  reasonings,  imaginations, 
passions, — humanities,  in  fact,  and  reducing  ourselves  to  that 
metaphysical  essence  or  germ  of  our  being,  which  lay  from 
eternity — not  a  creature,  but  the  ihoitght  of  a  creature,  in  the 
Divine  Word. 

Now  it  appears  to  me  that  this  self-spiritualizing  process 
which  seeks  by  a  refined  asceticism  to  transcend  humanity 
and  creatureliness,  is  altogether  a  mistake.  An  ideal  suffi- 
ciently high,  and  ever  beyond  us,  is  already  given  in  the  moral 
perfection  of  Christ  Jesus.  This  desire  to  escape  from  all  the 
modes  and  means  of  our  human  existence  came  not  from  Paul, 
but  from  Plato.  It  revives  the  impatience  of  that  noble  but 
one-sided,  Greek  ideal,  which  despised  the  body  and  daily 
life,  abhorred  matter  as  a  prison-house,  instead  of  using  it  as 
a  scaffolding,  and  longed  so  intensely  to  become  pure,  passion- 
less intellect.    I  know  no  self  transcendence,  and  I  desire  none, 


302        German  Mysticism  in  the  14    Century.        [b.  vi, 

higher  than  the  self-sacrifice  of  the  good  Shepherd,  who  laid 
down  his  life  for  the  sheep.  You  will  probably  be  reminded 
here  of  another  great  Platonist.  Origen,  also,  makes  a  distinc- 
tion between  those  who  know  Christ,  according  to  the  flesh,  as 
he  terms  it,  i.e.,  in  his  sufferings,  death,  and  resurrection,  and 
that  higher  class  of  the  perfect,  or  Gnostici,  who,  on  the  basis 
of  that  fundamental  knowledge,  rise  from  the  historical  Christ 
to  the  spiritual  essence  of  the  Word.  Origen,  however,  sup- 
posed that  this  communion  with  the  Logos,  or  eternal  Reason, 
might  become  the  channel  of  a  higher  knowledge,  illumining 
the  Gnosticus  with  a  divine  philosophy.  With  Tauler,  on  the 
contrary,  the  intellectual  ambition  is  less  prominent ;  and  he 
who  has  ascended  into  the  uncreated  essence  cannot  bring 
down  from  thence  any  wisdom  for  this  lower  world.  Thus,  in 
our  extract,  he  says  that  if  the  soul  united  to  the  word  could 
perceive  itself,  it  would  seem  altogether  like  God,  and  would 
appear  possessed  of  all  knowledge  that  ever  was.  Such  is  the 
ideal;  but  the  first  reflex  act  would  dissolve  that  trance  of 
absolute,  immediate  oneness,  and  restore  the  mystic  to  the 
humbling  consciousness  of  a  separate,  actual  self;  and  here 
lies  the  great  difference  between  Tauler  and  Eckart.  Tauler, 
Suso,  and  Ruysbroek  say,  that  in  these  moments  of  exaltation 
the  soul  (above  distinctions)  is  not  conscious  of  its  distinction 
as  a  separate,  creature  entity.  Eckart  says,  not  that  the  soul 
has,  for  a  moment,  forgotten  all  that  is  personal,  and  that  parts 
it  off"  from  God,  but  that  the  distinction  does  not  exist  at  all, — 
not  that  we  do  not  know  ourselves  as  separate,  but  that  God 
does  not.  To  draw  the  line  between  theism  and  pantheism, 
is  not  always  easy ;  but  I  think  it  must  lie  somewhere 
hereabout. 

With  regard  to  the  doctrines  of  holy  indifference  and  disin- 
terested love,  the  German  mystics  are  by  no  means  so  extreme 
as  the  French,     Their  views  of  the  divine  character  were  more 


c.  6]  Taulcr  on  Selj -abnegation.  303 

profound  and  comprehensive ;  their  heaven  and  hell  were  less 
external  and  realistic.  A  mysticism  like  theirs  could  not  con- 
centrate itself,  as  Quietism  did,  on  the  degrees  and  qualities  of 
one  particular  affection.  Their  God  was  one  who,  by  a  benign 
necessity  of  nature,  must  communicate  Himself  in  blessing,  one 
whose  love  lay  at  the  root  of  His  being.  '  If  men  would  only 
believe,'  cries  Tauler,  in  one  of  his  sermons,  'how  passion- 
ately God  longs  to  save,  and  bring  forth  His  Son  in  them !' 
They  care  little  for  being  themselves  accused  of  making  matter 
eternal,  and  creatures  necessary  to  God,  if  they  can  free  Him 
from  the  imputation  of  selfishness  or  caprice.  And  so  they 
have  no  scruples  as  to  whether  it  be  not  selfish  and  criminal 
to  pray  for  our  own  salvation.  In  the  sense  of  Tauler — a  true 
and  deep  one — no  man  can  say,  'Thy  will  be  done,'  and  'Thy 
kingdom  come,'  without  praying  for  his  own  salvation.  When 
Tauler  seems  to  demand  a  self-abnegation  which  consents  to 
perdition  itself,  he  is  to  be  understood  in  one  of  two  ways  : 
either  he  would  say  that  salvation  should  be  desired  for  the 
sake  of  God,  above  our  own,  and  that  we  should  patiently  sub- 
mit, when  He  sees  fit  to  try  us  by  withdrawing  our  hope  of  it ; 
or  that  the  presence  and  the  absence  of  God  make  heaven  and 
hell — that  no  conceivable  enjoyment  ought  to  be  a  heaven  to  us 
without  Him,  no  conceivable  suffering  a  hell  with  Him.  But 
how  different  is  all  this  from  teaching,  with  some  of  the 
Quietists,  that,  since  (as  they  say)  God  is  equally  glorified  in 
our  perdition  and  in  our  salvation,  we  should  have  no  prefer- 
ence (if  our  love  be  truly  disinterested)  for  the  one  mode  of 
glorifying  Him  above  the  other.  That  any  human  being  ever 
attained  such  a  sublime  indifterence  I  shall  not  believe,  until  it 
is  attested  by  a  love  for  man  as  much  above  ordinary  Christian 
benevolence,  as  this  love  for  God  professes  to  be  above  ordi- 
nary Christian  devotion ;  for  what  is  true  of  the  principle  of 
love,  is  true  of  its  degrees — '  He  that  loveth  not  his  brother 


304         Gennan  Mysticism  in  the  14'^  Century.        [b.  vl 

whom  he  hath  seen,  how  shall  he  love  God  whom  he  hath 
not  seen  ?' 

The  strongly  ascetic  language  of  Tauler  and  his  brethren, 
their  almost  Manichean  contempt  of  the  world,  must  be  read 
by  the  light  of  their  times,  so  full  of  misery  and  corruption  ; 
and  by  the  light,  also,  of  those  fearful  furnaces  of  trial  through 
which  they  had  personally  passed.  What  soul,  into  which  the 
iron  has  entered,  will  say,  while  the  pain  is  still  fresh,  that  the 
words  of  Tauler,  or  of  Thomas  k  Kempis,  are  intemperate? 
It  is  probable  that  Tauler  would  have  been  less  impatient  to 
abolish  his  very  personality,  in  order  to  give  place  to  God,  had 
he  been  able,  like  Luther,  to  regard  salvation,  in  greater 
measure,  as  consisting  in  a  work  done  for,  as  well  as  wrought 
in  him.  But  his  justification  is  a  progressive,  approximate 
process.  It  is  not  a  something  he  accepts,  but  a  something  he 
has  to  work  out ;  and  seeing,  as,  with  his  true  humility,  he  was 
sure  to  do,  how  unsatisfactory  was  his  likeness  to  God,  how 
great  the  distance  still,  the  only  resource  open  to  him  is  to 
ignore  or  annihilate  that  sorry  and  disappointing  personality 
altogether,  that  God,  instead  of  it,  may  perform  his  actions, 
and  be,  in  fact,  the  substitute  for  his  soul.  Both  Tauler  and 
Luther  believe  in  substitution.  The  substitution  of  Tauler  is 
internal — God  takes  his  place  within  himself  The  substitu- 
tion of  Luther  is  external — when  he  believed  on  Christ,  the 
Saviour  associated  him  with  Himself,  and  so  brought  him  into 
sonship.  So  inevitable  is  the  idea  of  sojne  substitution,  where 
the  sense  of  sin  is  deep.  Luther  believes  as  profoundly  as 
Tauler  in  a  present,  inward,  living  Saviour,  as  opposed  to  a 
remote  historic  personage,  intellectually  acknowledged.  In 
the  theology  of  both  the  old  duaUsm  is  broken  down,  and  God 
is  brought  near  to  man,  yea,  within  him.  But  the  Son  to  whom 
Tauler  is  united,  is  the  uncreated  essence,  the  super-essential 
Word,  from  the  beginning  with  the  Father.     The  Son  to  whom 


c.  6]  Taiiler  and  Luther.  30 ' 


Luther  is  united  is  emphatically  the  Godnian,  as  truly  human, 
in  all  sympathy  and  nearness,  as  when  He  walked  the  Galilean 
hills.  The  humanity  of  Christ  is  chiefly  historic  with  Tauler, 
and  for  any  practical  purpose  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  sur- 
vived His  exaltation  ;  but  with  Luther  that  humanity  is  so 
vital  and  so  perpetual  that  he  will  even  transfer  to  it  the  attri- 
butes of  Deity.  So  far  from  desiring  to  pass  upward  from  the 
man  Christ  Jesus  to  the  Logos,  as  from  a  lower  to  a  higher, 
Luther  calls  *  that  sinking  himself  so  deep  in  flesh  and  blood,' 
the  most  glorious  manifestation  of  Godhead.  He  does  not, 
with  the  Platonists,  see  degradation  in  the  limitations  of  our 
nature ;  that  nature  has  been  honoured  unspeakably,  and  is 
glorified,  not  annihilated,  by  the  Incarnate  One.  According  to 
LiUher,  the  undivine  consists  in  sin,  and  sin  alone  ;  not  in  our 
human  means  and  modes,  and  processes  of  thought.  Thus 
with  him  the  divine  and  human  are  intimately  associated,  not 
merely  in  the  religious  life,  as  it  is  termed,  but  in  our  temporal 
hopes  and  fears,  in  every  part  of  our  complicated,  struggling, 
mysterious  humanity.  I'he  theology  of  Luther  is  more  free, 
joyous,  and  human,  partly  because  the  serene  and  superhuman 
ideal  of  Tauler  did  not  appear  to  him  either  possible  or 
desirable,  partly  because  sanctification  was,  with  him,  a  change 
of  state  consequent  on  a  change  of  relation — the  grateful  service 
of  one  who,  by  believing,  has  entered  into  rest;  and  partly,  also, 
because  he  does  not  lose  sight  of  the  humanity  of  Christ,  in  His 
divinity,  to  the  extent  which  Tauler  does.  Both  Luther  and  Tauler 
say — the  mere  history  alone  will  not  profit :  Christ  must  be  born 
in  you.  Luther  adds— Christ  begins  to  be  born  in  you  as  soon 
as  you  heartily  believe  upon  Him.  Tauler  adds — Christ  is  born 
in  you  as  soon  as  you  have  become  nothing. 

It  would  be  very  unfair  to  make  it  a  matter  o'i  blame  to 
Tauler  that  he  did  not  see  with  Luther's  eyes,  and  do  Luther's 
work.    Luther  in  one  century,  and  Tauler  in  another,  had  their 

VOL.  I.  X 


3o6        German  Mysticism  in  the  14^^  Century.       [b.  vi. 

tasks  appointed,  and  quitted  themselves  like  men.  It  was  for 
Tauler  to  loosen  the  yoke  of  asceticism  :  it  was  for  Luther  to 
break  it  in  pieces.  But  it  would  be  just  as  culpable  to  disguise 
the  real  differences  between  Tauler  and  Luther,  and  to  conceal 
the  truth,  from  a  desire  to  make  Tauler  appear  a  more  com- 
plete reformer  than  he  really  was.  Our  High  Churchmen,  in 
their  insular  self-complacency,  love  to  depreciate  Luther  and 
the  Continental  reformers.  Idolaters  of  the  past  as  they  are, 
we  do  not  think  that  they  will  be  better  pleased  with  that 
noblest  product  of  the  Middle  Age — the  German  mysticism  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  now  placed  within  their  reach.  These 
sermons  of  Tauler  assert  so  audaciously  against  sacerdotalism, 
the  true  priesthood  of  every  Christian  man.  There  is  so 
little  in  them  of  the  '  Church  about  us,*  so  much  of  the  '  Christ 

within  us.' 

****** 

It  would  have  moved  the  scorn  of  some  of  the  mystics,  and 
the  sorrow  of  others,  could  they  have  been  made  aware  of  the 
strange  uses  to  which  some  persons  were  to  turn  them  in  this 
nineteenth  century.  The  Emersonian  philosophy,  for  example, 
is  grieved  that  one  series  of  writings  should  arrogate  inspiration 
to  themselves  alone.  It  is  obvious  that  a  ready  credence  given 
to  professed  inspiration  in  other  quarters,  and  later  times,  must 
tend  to  lower  the  exclusive  prestige  of  the  Scriptures.  Thus 
the  mystics  may  be  played  off  against  the  Apostles,  and  all 
that  is  granted  to  mysticism  may  be  considered  as  so  much 
taken  from  the  Bible.  A  certain  door  has  been  marked  with  a 
cross.  Emerson,  like  the  sly  Abigail  of  the  Forty  Thieves, 
proceeds  to  mark,  in  like  manner,  all  the  doors  in  the  street. 
Very  gratifying  truly,  and  comic  in  the  highest  degree,  to 
witness  the  perplexity  of  mankind,  going  up  and  down,  seeking 
some  indication  of  the  hoped-for  guidance  from  above  !  I 
do  not  believe  that  the  inspired  writers  v/ere  (to  use  Philo's 


0.6.]  False  Vieivs  of  Inspiration.  307 

comparison)  as  passive  as  a  lyre  under  ihe  hand  of  a  musician. 
But  some,  who  are  much  shocked  at  this  doctrine  in  their 
case,  would  have  us  be  awe-stricken,  rather  than  offended,  by 
similar  pretension  on  the  part  of  certain  mystics.  Then,  they 
tell  us  to  tread  delicately — to  remember  how  little  the  laws  of 
our  own  nature  are  known  to  us — to  abstain  from  hasty  judg- 
ment. In  this  way,  it  is  supposed  that  Bibliolatry  may  be  in 
some  measure  checked,  and  one  of  the  greatest  religious  evils 
of  the  time  be  happily  lessened.  Criticise,  if  you  will,  John's 
history,  or  Paul's  letters,  but  let  due  reverence  restrain  you 
from  applying  the  tests  of  a  superficial  common  sense  to  the 
utterances  of  the  Montanuses,  the  Munzers,  the  Engelbrechls, 
the  Hildegards,  the  Theresas.  But  what  saith  History  as  to 
mysticism  ?  Very  plainly  she  tells  us  that  the  mystics  have 
been  a  power  in  the  world,  and  a  power  for  good,  in  proportion 
as  their  teaching  has  been  in  accordance  with  the  Bible ; — that 
the  instances  wherein  they  have  failed  have  been  precisely 
those  in  which  they  have  attempted  (whether  wittingly,  or  not) 
to  substitute  another  and  a  private  revelation  for  it.  They 
have  come  as  a  blessing  to  their  age,  just  in  proportion  as  they 
have  called  the  attention  of  men  to  some  of  the  deepest  lessons 
of  that  book — to  lessons  too  commonly  overlooked.  The  very 
men  who  might  seem,  to  superficial  observers,  to  bear  witness 
against  the  Bible,  do  in  reality  utter  the  most  emphatic  testi- 
mony _/^r  it.  A  fact  of  this  nature  lends  additional  importance 
to  the  history  of  mysticism  at  the  present  time. 

Again,  there  are  some  who  may  suppose  there  is  a  real  resem- 
blance between  the  exhortations  of  Tauler,  and  the  counsel  given 
men  by  such  philosophers  as  Fichte  or  Herr  Teufelsdrockh. 
Do  not  both  urge  men  to  abandon  introspections — to  abstain 
from  all  self-seeking — to  arise  and  live  in  the  transcendental 
world,  by  abandoning  hope  and  fear,  and  by  losing  our  finite  in 
an  Infinite  Will?     Some  similarity  of  sound  tliere  may  occa- 

X  2 


3o8         German  Mysticism  in  the  14''''  Century.        [b.  vi. 

sionally  be,  but  the  antipathy  of  principle  between  the  two 
kinds  of  teaching  is  profound  and  radical. 

I  will  suppose  that  there  comes  to  our  Teufelsdrbckh  some 
troubled  spirit,  full  of  the  burden  of  '  this  unintelligible  world,' 
questioning, — as  to  an  oracle.  The  response  is  ready.  '  What 
do  you  come  whining  to  me  about  your  miserable  soul  for  ? 
The  soul-saving  business  is  going  down  fast  enough  now-a-days, 
I  can  tell  you.  So  you  want  to  be  happy,  do  you  ^  Pining  after 
your  Lubberland,  as  usual, — your  Millennium  of  mere  Ease 
and  plentiful  supply.  Poor  wretch !  let  me  tell  you  this, — the 
very  fact  of  that  hunger  of  yours  proves  that  you  will  never 
have  it  supplied.  Your  appetite,  my  friend,  is  too  enormous. 
In  this  wild  Universe  of  ours,  storming-in,  vague-menacing,  it 
is  enough  if  you  shall  find,  not  happiness,  but  existence  and 
footing  to  stand  on, — and  that  only  by  girding  yourself  for 
continual  effort  and  endurance.  I  was  wretched  enough  once 
— down  in  the  "  Everlasting  Nay,"  thinking  this  a  Devil's-world, 
because,  in  the  universal  scramble  of  myriads  for  a  handful,  I 
had  not  clutched  the  happiness  I  set  my  heart  on.  Now,  here 
I  am  in  the  "  Everlasting  Yea,"  serene  as  you  see  me.  How? 
Simply  by  giving  up  wanting  to  be  happy,  and  setting  to  work, 
and  resigning  myself  to  the  Eternities,  Abysses,  or  whatsoever 
other  name  shall  be  given  to  the  fontal  Vortices  of  the  inner 

realms Miracles  !    Fiddlestick  !    Are  not  you  a  miracle 

to  your  horse  >  What  can  they  prove  ?  .  .  .  .  Inspiration  ! — ■ 
Try  and  get  a  little  for  yourself,  my  poor  friend.  Work,  man  : 
go  work,  and  let  that  sorry  soul  of  thine  have  a  little  peace.' 

*  Peace,'  repeats  our  '  poor  friend,'  as  he  goes  discomfited 
away.  'Peace  !  the  very  thing  this  soul  of  mine  will  not  let 
me  have,  as  it  seems.  I  know  I  am  selfish.  I  dare  say  this 
desire  of  happiness  is  very  mean  and  low,  and  all  that ;  but  I 
would  fain  reach  something  higher.  Yet  the  first  step  thereto 
he  does  not  show  me.     To  leap  into  those  depths  of  stoical 


c.  6.]  Teiifelsdrockh  contrasted  with  Taulcr.  309 

apathy  which  that  great  man  has  reached,  is  simply  impossible 
to  poor  me.  His  experience  is  not  mine.  He  tells  a  bedridden 
man  to  climb  the  mountains,  and  he  will  straightway  be  well. 
Let  him  show  me  the  way  to  a  little  strength,  and  in  time  I 
may.  I  will  not  hunger  any  more  after  mere  "  lubberly  enjoy- 
ment," if  he  will  offer  my  affections  something  more  attractive. 
But  Infinite  Will,  and  Law,  and  Abysses,  and  Eternities,  are 
not  attractive — nay,  I  am  not  sure  that  they  are  intelligible  to 
me  or  any  mortal.' 

Now  the  doctrine  of  Tauler  is  nowhere  more  in  contrast  with 
that  just  uttered  than  in  its  tenderness  of  Christian  sympathy 
and  adaptation,  as  compared  with  the  dreary  and  repellent  pride 
of  the  philosopher.  Instead  of  overwhelming  the  applicant  by 
absurdly  demanding,  as  the  first  step,  a  sublimity  of  self-sacrifice 
which  only  the  finished  adept  may  attain,  Tauler  is  not  too 
proud  to  begin  at  the  beginning.  Disinterested  love  is,  with 
him,  a  mountain  to  which  he  points  in  the  distance,  bright  with 
heavenly  glory.  Disinterested  love,  with  Teufehdrockh,  is  an 
avalanche  hurled  down  right  in  the  path  of  the  beginner. 
Tauler  dees  not  see,  in  the  unhappiness  of  the  man,  so  much 
mere  craven  fear,  or  thwarted  selfishness.  He  sees  God's  image 
in  him ;  he  believes  that  that  hunger  of  his  soul,  which  he 
vainly  tries  to  satisfy  with  things  earthly,  is  a  divine  craving,  a 
proof  that  he  was  born  to  satisfy  it  with  things  heavenly.  He 
does  not  talk  grandiloquently  about  Duty,  and  the  glory  of 
moral  Freedom.  He  tells  him  that  the  same  Saviour  who  died 
upon  the  cross  is  pleading  and  knocking  at  his  heart,  and  doth 
passionately  long  to  bless  him.  He  sends  him  away  to  think 
over  this  fact,  till  it  shall  become  more  real  to  him  than  house 
and  home,  or  sun  and  stars.  He  does  not  think  that  he  can 
improve  on  'the  low  morality'  of  the  gospel  by  disdaining  to 
appeal  to  hope  and  fear  in  order  to  snatch  men  from  their  sins. 
If  so  to  plead  be  to  speak  after  the  flesh,  after  the  flesh  he  will 


3  I  o         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'^  Centitry.        [b.  vi. 

speak,  to  save  a  brother.  There  will  be  time  enough,  he  thinks, 
if  God  sees  fit  to  lead  the  man  to  the  heights  of  absolute  self- 
loss  ;  and  God  will  take  His  own  way  to  do  it.  All  Tauler  has 
to  do  is  to  declare  to  him  the  truth  concerning  a  Saviour,  not 
to  prescribe  out  of  his  own  experience  a  law  beyond  that  which 
is  written.  In  this  way,  instead  of  striking  him  into  despair,  or 
bidding  him  bury  care  in  work,  he  comforts  and  strengthens 
him.  He  does  not  despise  him  for  keeping  the  lav/  simply  out 
of  love  to  Him  who  gave  it.  He  does  not  think  it  unmanly, 
but  true  manhood  rather,  when  he  sees  him  living,  a  suppliant, 
dependent  on  a  life  higher  than  his  own — on  a  Person,  whose 
present  character  and  power  were  attested  of  old  by  history  and 
miracle,  as  well  as  now  by  the  '  witness  of  the  Spirit.' 

I  think  the  candid  reader  of  Tauler's  sermons,  and  of  Sartor 
Resarttis,  will  admit  that  a  difference  in  substance  such  as  I 
have  pointed  out,  does  exist  between  them.  If  so,  those  who 
follow  the  philosophy  of  Teufelsdrockh  cannot  claim  Tauler — 
have  no  right  to  admire  him,  and  ought  to  condemn  in  him  that 
which  they  condemn  in  the  Christianity  of  the  present  day. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Alas  poor  country ; 
Almost  afraid  to  know  itself!     It  cannot 
Be  called  our  mother,  but  our  grave.     Where  nothing. 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  srailc  ; 
Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rend  the  air, 
Are  made,  not  mark'd  ;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 
A  modern  ecstasy  ;  the  dead  man's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  asked,  for  who  ;  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 
Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macbeth. 

'T^HE  day  after  Atherton's  return,  Willoughby  and  Gower 
-^  met  about  noon,  at  Lowestoffe's  , lodge  gate,  the  one  re- 
turning from  a  piscatory  expedition  of  six  hours,  with  fish,  the 
other  from  a  pictorial  ramble  of  four  days,  with  sketches. 
Willoughby  had  to  tell  of  the  escapades  of  tricksy  trout,  and 
of  the  hopes  and  fears  which  were  suspended  on  his  line.  But 
not  a  word,  of  course,  had  he  to  say  of  the  other  thoughts 
which  busied  him  the  while, — how  his  romance  was  in  his 
head,  as  he  carried  those  credentials  of  idleness,  the  fishing- 
tackle,  and  how,  while  he  was  angling  for  fish,  he  was  devising 
the  fashion  in  which  Blanche  should  throw  the  fly  for  Florian. 
Gower  had  seen  such  glades  and  uplands — such  wondrous 
effects  of  light  and  shadow — he,  too,  had  had  his  adventures, 
and  could  show  his  trophies. 

Dinner  was  succeeded  by  that  comparatively  somnolent  period 
which  preceded  the  early  tea  so  dear  to  Lowestofife.  Atherton 
found  that  a  book  of  Schubert's,  which  had  interested  him  in 
the  morning,  was,  in  the  afternoon,  only  a  conducting-rod  to 


3  I  2         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4     Century.        [b.  vi. 

lure  down  the  subtile  influence  of  sleep.  Lowestofife,  lulled  by 
the  buzzing  flies,  dropped  off"  into  an  arm-chair  doze,  without 
apology  or  disguise.  He  had  been  early  up,  and  had  been 
riding  about  all  day  on  a  new  chestnut  mare.  Violently  had  he 
objurgated  that  wretch  of  a  groom  for  giving  her  too  many 
beans,  thereby  rendering  her  in  danger  of  flying  at  the  heels  ; 
and  what  was  worse,  the  monster  \rj.O,  p  it  on  a  gag  snaffle  with 
the  martingale,  and  narrowly  escaped  getting  her  into  mischief. 
But  the  flying  storm  had  long  since  swept  away.  Pefore  tea, 
Lowestofife  was  in  his  good-humoured,  irrational  humour ;  after 
tea  he  would  be  in  his  good-humoured  rational  one.  As  for 
Gower  and  Kate,  they  had  quietly  withdrawn  together  to  see  a 
water-lily  that  had  just  blown,  and  were  not  heard  of  till  tea-time. 

After  tea,  when  certain  sleepy  people  had  again  become 
responsible  creatures,  conversation  began. 

Gower.  Don't  you  think  Atherton  has  a  very  manuscriptural 
air  to-night  ? 

Kate.  There  is  a  certain  aspect  of  repletion  about  him. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  We  must  bleed  him,  or  the  consequences 
may  be  serious.     What's  this?    [Fulls  a  paper  out  of  his  pocket.) 

Kate.  And  this  !     {Fulls  out  another.') 

WiLLouGHBY.  He  seems  better  now. 

Atherton  {abstractedly).  I  was  thinking  of  the  difiference 
between  Gower's  studies  and  mine  for  the  last  few  days.  I 
have  been  reading  a  dark,  miserable  chapter  in  the  history  of 
man.  He  has  been  the  chronicler  of  pleasant  passages  in  the 
history  of  rocks  and  trees, — his  great  epochs,  a  smile  of  sun- 
shine or  sudden  chill  of  shadow, — the  worst  disasters,  a  dull 
neutral-tint  kind  of  day,  or  a  heavy  rain, — his  most  impractic. 
able  subjects,  beauties  too  bright  or  evanescent  to  be  caught. 
It  is  sad  to  think  how  every  subject  of  our  study  deepens  in 
sorrow  as  it  rises  in  dignity. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  yet  it  is  only  by  the  manful  struggles  of 


c.  7.]  The  Black  Death.  3  i  3 

past  generations  through  calamity  and  against  wrong,  that  we 
have  bequeathed  to  us  the  leisure,  the  liberty,  and  the  know- 
ledge essential  to  the  highest  enjoyment  of  nature.  Atherton, 
in  fact,  studies  the  chequered  and  intricate  causes  which  issue  in 
the  taste  of  Gower  as  one  of  their  effects.  I  should  think  it 
must  be  no  small  gain  for  an  artist  to  be  placed  beyond  the 
mediaeval  idea  which  cet  the  l7:ferno  in  the  centre  of  the  earth, 
and  imagined,  far  below  the  roots  of  the  mountains  and  the 
channels  of  the  sea,  eternal  flames  as  the  kernel  of  the  world. 

Gower.  I  have  sometimes  endeavoured,  while  lying  on  the 
grass,  to  realise  in  my  own  way  the  conception  of  the  world  by 
the  light-hearted  Greeks  as  an  animal,  or  as  a  robe  or  peplus. 
I  have  imagined  the  clouds  the  floating  breath  of  the  great 
creature,  rising  against  the  crystal  sphere  of  the  sky,  under 
which  it  lies  as  in  an  enchanter's  glass  ; — the  seas,  some  deli- 
cate surfaces  of  the  huge  organism,  that  run  wrinkled  into  a 
quick  shiver  at  the  cold  touch  of  wind ; — the  forests,  a  fell  of 
hair  which  is  ruflied  by  the  chafing  hand  of  the  tempest.  Then, 
when  I  look  at  the  earth  in  the  other  aspect,  as  a  variegated 
woven  robe,  I  see  it  threaded  silverly  with  branching  rivers 
spangled  with  eyes  of  lakes  ;  where  the  sleek  meadows  lie, 
it  is  rich  with  piled  velvet,  and  where  the  woods  are,  tufted  with 
emerald  feathers.  But  now  I  want  to  hear  something  more 
about  our  Strasburg  people. 

Atherton.  Bad  news.  There  is  a  great  hiatus  in  Arnstein's 
journal,  which  history  fills  up  with  pestilence  and  bloodshed. 
I  have  drawn  up  a  few  notes  of  this  interval  which  must  serve 
you  as  an  outline.  {Reads.) 

In  the  year  1348  that  terrible  contagion,  known  as  the  Black 
Death,  which  journeyed  from  the  East  to  devastate  the  whole 
of  Europe,  appeared  at  Strasburg.^    Everywhere  famine,  floods, 

'  See  Hecker's  Black  Death  (trans.      by    Dr.     Babington,     1853). — Hecker 


314        German  Mysticism  in  the  ia^^'^  Century.         [b.  vi. 

the  inversion  of  the  seasons,  strange  appearances  in  the  sky,  had 
been  its  precursors.  In  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  as  afterwards 
in  the  Baltic,  ships  were  descried  drifting  masterless,  filled  only 
by  plague-stricken  corpses.  Every  man  dreaded,  not  merely 
the  touch  and  the  breath  of  his  neighbour,  but  his  very  eye, 
so  subtile  and  so  swift  seemed  the  infection.  In  many  parts  of 
France  it  was  computed  that  only  two  out  of  every  twenty  inha- 
bitants were  left  alive.  In  Strasburg  sixteen  thousand  perished  ; 
in  Avignon  sixty  thousand.  In  Paris,  at  one  time,  four  or  five 
hundred  were  dying  in  a  day.  In  that  city,  in  the  midst  of 
a  demoralization  and  a  selfish  horror  like  that  Thucydides  has 
painted,  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  were  seen  tending  the  sufierers 
who  crowded  the  Hotel  Dieu  ;  and,  as  death  thinned  their 
martyr-ranks,  numbers  more  were  ready  to  fill  the  same  ofiice 
of  perilous  compassion.  Pausanias  says  that  in  Athens  alone 
out  of  all  Greece  there  was  raised  an  altar  to  mercy.  But  it 
was  an  altar  almost  without  a  ministry.  Heathendom,  at  its 
best,  might  glory  in  the  shrine  ;  Christianity,  at  its  worst,  could 
furnish  the  priesthood. 

In  Strasburg  Tauler  laboured  fearlessly,  with  Thomas  and 
Ludolph,  among  the  panic-stricken  people — doubly  cursed  by 
the  Interdict  and  by  the  plague.  Great  fires  of  vine-wood, 
wormwood,  and  laurel  were  kept  burning  in  the  squares  and 
market-places  to  purify  the  air,  lighting  up  the  carved  work  of 
the  deserted  town-hall,  and  flickering  aslant  the  overhanging 
gables  of  the  narrow  crooked  streets  and  the  empty  tradesmen's 
stalls.  The  village  was  ravaged  as  fatally  as  the  town.  The 
herds  grew  wild  in  the  fields  of  the  dead  peasants,  or  died 
strangely  themselves — victims,  apparently,  to  the  universal 
blight  of  life.  The  charlatans  of  the  day  drove  for  awhile  a 
golden  traffic  with  quintessences  and  distillations,  filthy  and 

gives  the  documents  relating  to  the     pendix,  from  the  Chronicle  o(  Jacob 
trial  of  the  Neustadt  Jews  in  an  ap-      of  Konigshoven.   See  also  pp.  103-127. 


o.  7.]  The  Persecution  of  the  yczvs.  3  i  5 

fantastic  medicines,  fumigation  of  shirts  and  kerchiefs,  charms 
and  invocations,  only  at  last  to  perish  in  their  turn.  Even  the 
monks  had  lost  their  love  for  gold,  since  every  gift  was  deadly. 
In  vain  did  trembling  men  carry  their  hoards  to  the  monastery 
or  the  church.  Every  gate  was  barred,  and  the  wealthy  might 
be  seen  tossing  their  bags  of  bezants  over  the  convent  walls. 
In  the  outskirts  of  towns  and  cities,  huge  pits  were  opened, 
whose  mouths  were  daily  filled  with  hideous  heaps  of  dead. 
The  pope  found  it  necessary  to  consecrate  the  river  Rhone,  and 
hundreds  of  corpses  were  cast  out  at  Avignon,  from  the  quays 
and  pleasant  gardens  by  the  water-side,  to  be  swept  by  the 
rapid  stream  under  the  silent  bridges,  past  the  forgotten  ships 
and  forsaken  fields  and  mourning  towns,  livid  and  wasting,  out 
into  the  sea. 

In  a  frenzy  of  terror  and  revenge  the  people  fell  upon  the 
miserable  Jews.  They  were  accused  of  poisoning  the  wells, 
and  every  heart  was  steeled  against  them.  Fear  seemed  to 
render  all  classes  more  ferocious,  and  the  man  who  might  sicken 
and  die  to-morrow  found  a  wretched  compensation  in  inflicting 
death  to-day  on  the  imagined  authors  of  his  danger.  Toledo 
was  supposed  to  be  the  centre  of  an  atrocious  scheme  by  which 
the  Jews  were  to  depopulate  Christendom.  At  Chillon  several 
Jews,  some  after  torture  and  some  in  terror  of  it,  confessed 
that  they  had  received  poison  for  that  purpose.  It  was  a  black 
and  red  powder,  made  partly  from  a  basilisk,  and  sent  in  the 
mummy  of  an  egg.  The  deposition  of  the  Jews  arrested  at 
Neustadt  was  sent  by  the  castellan  of  Chillon  to  Strasburg. 
Bishops,  nobles,  and  chief  citizens  held  a  diet  at  Binnefeld  in 
Alsace,  to  concert  measures  of  persecution.  The  deputies  of 
Strasburg,  to  their  honour  be  it  spoken,  declared  that  nothing 
had  been  proved  against  the  Jews.  Their  bishop  was  the  most 
pitiless  advocate  of  massacre.  The  result  was  a  league  of  priests, 
lords,  and  people,  to  slay  or  banish  every  Jew.     In  some  places 


3i6         German  Mysticism  in  the  \^    Century.        [b.  -n. 

the  senators  and  burgomasters  were  disposed  to  mercy  or  to 
justice.  The  pope  and  the  emperor  raised  their  voices,  alike  in 
vain,  in  behalf  of  the  victims.  Some  Christians,  who  had  sought 
from  pity  or  from  avarice  to  save  them,  perished  in  the  same 
flames.  The  noble  of  whom  they  bought  protection  was  stig- 
matised as  a  Jew  master,  execrated  by  the  populace,  at  the 
mercy  of  his  enemies.  No  power  could  stem  the  torrent.  The 
people  had  tasted  blood  ;  the  priest  had  no  mercy  for  the  mur- 
derers of  the  Lord  ;  the  baron  had  debts  easily  discharged  by 
the  death  of  his  creditor.  At  Strasburg  a  monster  scaffold  was 
erected  in  the  Jewish  burial  ground,  and  two  thousand  were 
burnt  alive.  At  Basle  all  the  Jews  were  burnt  together  in  a 
wooden  edifice  erected  for  the  purpose.  At  Spires  they  set 
their  quarter  in  flames,  and  perished  by  their  own  hands.  A 
guard  kept  out  the  populace  while  men  commissioned  by  the 
senate  hunted  for  treasure  among  the  smoking  ruins.  The 
corrupting  bodies  of  those  slain  in  the  streets  were  put  up  in 
empty  wine  casks,  and  trundled  into  the  Rhine.  When  the 
rage  for  slaughter  had  subsided,  hands,  red  with  Hebrew  blood, 
were  piously  employed  in  building  belfries  and  repairing  churches 
with  Jewish  tombstones  and  the  materials  of  Jewish  houses. 

The  gloomy  spirit  of  the  time  found  fit  expression  in  the 
fanaticism  of  the  Flagellants.^     Similar  troops  of  devotees  had 

-  These   fanatics    were   everywhere  parte  der  geischelaere  gieng  dns  lant 

foremost  among  the  instigators  of  the  abe,  die  ander  parte  das  lant  lif.  und 

cruelties    perpetrated    on    the    Jews.  kam  so  vll  volkes  in  ire  bruoderschaft, 

Women,    and   even    child'^n,    joined  das   as   verdros  den    bobest  uud  den 

their  ranks  in  great  numbers,  wearing  keiserund  die  phafheit.  und  der  keiser 

the  hats   with  red    crosses,    carrying  verschreip  dem  bobeste  das  er  etwas 

flags,  and  scourging  themselves  with  hie  zuo  gedaechte  :    anders  die  geis- 

the  rest.    The   particulars   given   are  cheler  verkertent  alle  die  welt.'     The 

taken  from  the  account  in  Jacob  von  Flagellants  claimed  power  to  confess 

Konigshoven's  Elsassische   u.  Strass-  and  give  absolution.     The  thirty-four 

bur^ische  Chronik,  inserted  entire   in  days'   scourging  amcJng  them  was  to 

Wackernagel, — (p.931).  Thechronicler  make  a  man  as  innocent  as  a  babe — 

says: — 'Zuo  Strosburg  kam  medenne  the  virtue  of  the  lash  was  above    all 

tflsent  manne  in  ire  geselleschaft,  und  sacraments.      Thus   the  people    took 

siu  teiltent  sich  zuo  Strosburg :  eine  religion  into  their  own  hands,  blindly 


c.  7.]  TJie  Flagellants.  3  i  7 

in  the  preceding  century  carried  throughout  Italy  the  mania  of 
the  scourge  ;  but  never  before  had  the  frenzy  of  penance  been 
so  violent  or  so  contagious.  It  was  in  the  summer  of  1349 
that  they  appeared  in  Strasburg.  All  the  bells  rang  out  as  two 
hundred  of  them,  following  two  and  two  many  costly  banners 
and  tapers,  entered  the  city,  singing  strange  hymns.  The 
citizens  vied  with  each  other  in  opening  to  them  their  doors 
and  seating  them  at  their  tables.  More  than  a  thousand  joined 
their  ranks.  Whoever  entered  their  number  was  bound  to 
continue  among  them  thirty-four  days,  must  have  fourpence  of 
his  own  for  each  day,  might  enter  no  house  unasked,  might 
speak  with  no  woman.  The  lash  of  the  master  awaited  every 
infraction  of  their  rule.  The  movement  partook  of  the  popular, 
anti-hierarchical  spirit  of  the  day.  The  priest  or  fiiar  could 
hold  no  rank,  as  such,  among  the  Flagellants.  The  mastership 
was  inaccessible  to  him,  and  he  was  precluded  from  the  secret 
council.  The  scourging  took  place  twice  a  day.  Every 
morning  and  evening  they  repaired  in  procession  to  the  place 
of  flagellation  outside  the  city.  There  they  stripped  them- 
selves, retaining  only  a  pair  of  linen  drawers.  They  lay  down 
in  a  large  circle,  indicating  by  their  posture  the  particular  sin 
of  which  each  penitent  was  principally  guilty.  The  perjured 
lay  on  his  side,  and  held  up  three  fingers  ;  the  adulterer  on  his 
face.  The  master  then  passed  round,  applying  his  lash  to  each 
in  succession,  chanting  the  rhyme — 

Stand  up  in  virtue  of  holy  pain, 
And  guard  thee  well  from  guilt  again. 

One  after  the  other,  they  rose  and  followed  him,  singing  and 
scourging  themselves  with  whips  in  which  were  great  knots  and 
nails.     The  ceremony  closed  with  the  reading  of  a  letter,  said 

and  savagely, — no  other  way  was  then  panied  the  pestilence  had  loosened  the 

possible.     It   was  a  spasmodic  move-  grasp   of     the   power    temporal    and 

ment   of    the   mass  of  life    beneath,  spiritual  which  held   them    down  so 

when  the  social  disorder  that  accom-  long. 


3  i  8         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'''^  Century.        [b.  v 

to  have  been  brought  by  an  angel  from  heaven,  enjoining  their 
practice,  after  which  they  returned  home  in  order  as  they  came. 
The  people  crowded  from  far  and  near  to  witness  the  piteous 
expiation,  and  to  watch  with  prayers  and  tears  the  flowing  blood 
which  was  to  mingle  with  that  of  Christ.  The  pretended  letter 
was  reverenced  as  another  gospel,  and  the  Flagellant  was 
already  believed  before  the  priest.  The  clergy  grew  anxious  as 
they  saw  the  enthusiasm  spreading  on  every  side.  But  the 
unnatural  furor  could  not  last ;  its  own  extravagance  prepared 
its  downfall.  An  attempt  made  by  some  Flagellants  in  Stras- 
Jjurg  to  bring  a  dead  child  to  life  was  fatal  to  their  credit.  The 
Emperor,  the  Pope,  and  the  prelates  took  measures  against 
them  simultaneously,  in  Germany,  in  France,  in  Sicily,  and  in 
the  East.  The  pilgrimage  of  the  scourge  was  to  have  lasted 
four-and- thirty  years.  Six  months  sufficed  to  disgust  men  with 
the  folly,  to  see  their  angelic  letter  laughed  to  scorn,  their 
processions  denounced,  their  order  scattered. 

Meanwhile  the  enemies  of  Tauler  were  not  idle.  Louis  of 
Bavaria  was  dead.  The  new  Emperor  Charles  IV.  was  of  the 
papal  party,  and  called  the  Parsons'  Kaiser,  but  a  man  of  vigour 
and  enlightenment ;  so  weary  Germany,  broken  by  so  many 
calamities,  was  generally  inclined  to  acknowledge  his  claim. 
About  the  year  1348  he  visited  Strasburg,  and  the  clergy 
brought  Tauler  and  his  two  friends  before  him.  They  were  to 
answer  for  their  hard  words  against  priests  and  princes.  Charles 
listened  attentively  to  the  statement  of  their  principles,  and  to 
their  spirited  defence  of  what  they  had  said  and  done.  At  last 
he  said  (conceive  the  dismay  of  the  prelates  !)  that,  after  all, 
*  he  was  very  much  of  their  mind.'  But  the  ecclesiastics  did 
not  rest  till  they  had  procured  a  condemnatory  sentence.  The 
accused  were  commanded  to  publish  a  recantation,  and  to 
promise  to  refrain  for  the  future  from  such  contumacious 
language  concerning  the  Church  and  the  Interdict,  on  pain  of 


c  7.]  Tattler  before  the  Emperor.  %  1 9 

excommunication.  It  is  said  that,  in  spite  of  this  decision, 
they  did  but  speak  and  write  the  more  in  the  same  spirit.  This, 
however,  is  not  certain.  It  is  known  that  Tauler  shortly  after- 
wards left  his  native  city,  and  fixed  his  residence  in  Cologne, 
where  he  mostly  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life,  actively  engaged 
as  a  preacher  in  endeavouring  to  promote  a  deeper  spirituality, 
and  in  combating  the  enthusiasm  of  the  pantheistic  Beghards 
who  abounded  in  that  city.^ 

Chronicle  of  Adolf  Arnsieiit,  continued. 

Strasburg.  1354.  yanuary. — In  the  comparative  leisure 
of  the  winter  time,  I  set  down  in  order  (from  such  fragmentary 
notes  as  I  then  made)  records  of  a  journey  undertaken  last  year 
to  Flanders. 

When  I  left  Strasburg,  to  sail  down  the  Rhine,  our  city  hnd 
enjoyed  at  last  nearly  two  years'  prosperity.  We  could  scarcely 
believe  the  respite  real.  First  of  all,  after  so  many  troubles 
and  dissensions,  the  Black  Death  had  laid  us  waste.  Then 
came  the  Flagellants,  turning  all  things  upside  down — the 
irresistible  infection  of  their  fury — the  thirst  for  blood  they 
stirred  up  everywhere — the  slaughter  of  the  miserable  Jews. 
Then  we  had  the  Emperor  among  us,  demanding  unrighteous 
imposts.  Our  old  spirit  rose.  For  two  years  and  a  half  our 
chains  and  guard-ships  barred  the  passage  of  the  Rhine.*  We 
would  endure  any  extremity  rather  than  submit,  and  our  firm- 
ness won  the  day.  Now,  for  the  last  three  years, — the 
pestilence  and  its  horrors  over ;  blockaded  business  free 
again  • — our  little  world  has  been  gambolling  like  children  let 
loose  from  school.  Never  such  rapid  and  fruitful  buying  and 
selling,  such  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  such  feasting, 
pageantry,  and  merriment,  among  high  and  low  alike.^     All  the 

•*  See  Schmidt's  Taiiler,  p.  58. 
*  Laguille's  Histoire  d  Alsace,  liv.  xxv,  p.  290.  5  Heckcr,  p.  81 


320         German  Mysticism  in  the  l^^"'  Century.        [n.  v[. 

year  is  May  for  the  morris-dancers.     No  one  remembers  now 
the  scourge  or  the  torch. 

The  clergy  might  have  learnt  a  lesson  from  the  outbreak  of 
the  Flagellants.  It  should  have  shown  them  how  hateful  their 
vices  and  their  pride  had  made  them  to  the  people.  But  the 
universal  levity  now  pardons  clerical  crime  and  folly  as  it  does 
every  other.  The  odious  exaggeration  of  the  Flagellants  has 
given  men  a  pretext  for  licence,  and  ruined  the  hopes  of  reform. 
The  cause  of  emperor  against  pope  exists  no  longer.  In  the 
hour  of  conflict  and  of  sorrow,  men  hailed  the  help  and  listened 
to  the  teaching  of  the  Friends  of  God.  Tauler  himself,  were  he 
among  us,  would  find  it  another  Strasburg. 

Landed  at  Cologne,  I  hastened  to  the  cloister  of  St.  Gertrude 
to  find  Dr.  Tauler.  With  what  delight  did  I  see  him  once 
more  !  I  thought  him  looking  much  older,  and,  indeed,  he 
said  he  thought  the  same  of  me.  The  time  has  been  long  but 
a  stepmother  to  merry  faces  and  ruddy  cheeks.  He  told  me 
that  he  had  met  with  great  kindness  in  this  city,  which  he  had 
always  loved.  His  friends  were  numerous ;  his  preaching,  he 
hoped  not  without  fruit,  and  he  had  succeeded  in  reforming 
much  that  had  been  amiss.''  I  had  many  messages  for  him 
from  his  old  friends  in  Strasburg,  and  he  had  so  many  questions 
to  ask,  he  knew  not  where  to  begin. 

He  inquired  particularly  after  Rulman  Merswin.  This  rich 
merchant  had  withdrawn  from  the  world  (with  the  consent  of 
his  wife)  and  devoted  himself  altogether  to  the  contemplative 
life,  a  short  time  previous  to  the  coming  of  the  Black  Death. 
His  austerities  had  been  almost  fatal.  Tauler's  last  counsel  to 
him  M^as  to  lessen  their  severity.  I  saw  him  before  I  left,  and 
he  desired  me  to  tell  Tauler  that  the  Layman  had  visited  him 
more  than  once,  and  was  now  his  spiritual  guide.  I  informed 
the  Doctor,  moreover,  that  during  the  last  year  Merswin  had 

6  Schmidt's  Taulei;  p.  59. 


c.  7.]  Rnhnmt  Merswin,  32 1 

been  privately  busied  in  writing  a  book,  to  be  called  The  N'uie 
Rocks,  of  which  he  did  me  tlie  honour  of  reading  to  me  a  part.' 
The  Doctor  asking  what  I  thought,  I  said  it  seemed  to  be 
the  work  of  a  powerful  and  sombre  imagination,  excited  by  th'j 
suft'erings  he  had  inflicted  on  himself,  yet  containing  many 
solemn  and  most  just  rebukes  of  the  vices  prevalent.  Tauler 
said  that  such  excessive  mortification  in  all  classes,  and  espe- 
cially among  the  clergy,  often  weakened,  instead  of  exalting  the 
intellect.  He  feared  that  the  good  Rulman  would  al\va}s  lean 
too  much  on  visions,  voices,  ecstasies,  and  the  like,  and  never 
rise  to  the  higher  calmofunsensuous,  imageless  contemplation. 

The  second  time  I  visited  Tauler,  I  found  him  reading — he 
told  me  for  the  fourth  time — a  book  called  T/ie  Spiritual 
Nuptials,  by  John  Ruysbroek.'  The  Doctor  praised  it  highly, 
and  as  I  questioned  him  about  it,  oftered  to  lend  it  me  to  read. 
I  had  heard  of  Ruysbroek  as  a  master  in  spiritual  mysteries, 
often  holding  intercourse  by  letter  with  the  Friends  of  God  in 
Cologne,  Alsace,  and  even  in  the  Oberland.  I  took  the  book 
home  to  my  inn,  and  shut  myself  up  to  read  it.  Many  parts 
of  it  I  copied  out.  Not  a  few  things  in  it  I  found  hard  to  be 
understood,  and  consulting  with  the  Doctor  about  them,  he  told 
me  he  purposed  setting  out  in  a  few  days  to  visit  the  author. 
Should  I  like  to  accompany  him  ?  I  said  '  Yes,  with  all  my 
heart.'  So  we  left  Cologne  to  travel  to  the  convent  of  Grunthal, 
in  the  heart  of  the  forest  of  Soigne,  not  far  from  Louvain, 
whither  the  holy  man,  now  sixty  years  of  age,  had  of  late 
retired.'"' 

Yxom  Cologne  we  journeyed  direct  to  Aix-la-Chapelle.  There 
we  saw  the  chair  in   which  the  emperors  sit  when  they  are 

"  See  Note,  p.  336.  have     reached     Tauler   tliere,    either 

8  Ruysbroek  sent  a  copy  of  his  book,  through  them  or  from  the  author,  who 

De  oniiiln   spiritualiiivi    tiKptiar/aii,  must  liave  luuird  of  hiin. 

to   the    Friends   of  God  in  the  Ober-  '■*   See      yo/i,i)/iics     Hinshjck,     by 

land.  He  had  many  friends  in  Cologne,  Engelhardt,  p.  168. 

and  it  is  very  likely  that  the  work  may 

VOL.  1.  Y 


322         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [b.  w, 


crowned.  Its  sides  are  of  ivory,  and  the  bottom  is  made  of  a 
piece  of  wood  from  Noah's  Ark.  Tasted  the  water  in  the 
famous  hot  springs  there.  It  is  saltish ;  the  physicians  say  of 
singular  virtue,  whether  taken  inwardly  or  outwardly.  Saw 
near  the  town  a  water  which  is  lukewarm,  by  reason  of  one  of 
the  hot  springs  which  passes  under  it.  There  are  bred  in  it 
fine  fish,  they  say,  which  must  be  put  in  cold  water  two  months 
before  they  are  eaten. 

From  Aix-la-Chapelle  we  went  to  Maestricht,  and  thence 
through  Tirlemont,  to  Louvain.  This  last  is  a  wealthy  city, 
with  a  fine  town-hall.  The  Flemings  seem  very  fond  of  bells, 
which  are  always  chiming,  and  the  great  multitude  of  storks 
was  a  strange  thing  to  me  ;  they  make  their  nests  on  the  tops 
of  the  chimneys.  The  country  round  is  very  fertile,  and  the 
great  guilds  exceeding  prosperous.  The  small  handicrafts  have 
more  power  there  than  with  us  at  Strasburg.  At  Ypres,  I 
hear,  they  lately  mustered  five  thousand  strong  in  the  market- 
place, and  headed  by  their  deacons,  engaged  and  routed  the 
knights  and  men-at-arms  who  wished  to  hold  the  town  against 
the  men  of  Ghent."  They  are  very  brave  and  determined,  and 
keep  better  together,  as  it  seems  to  me,  than  our  folk.  I  found 
no  small  excitement  in  the  city,  on  account  of  the  war  then 
carrying  on  between  the  men  of  Ghent  and  their  allies,  on  the 
one  side,  and  the  Earl  of  Flanders  on  the  other.  It  began  with 
the  old  rivalry  between  Ghent  and  Bruges — some  dispute  about 
a  canal  from  the  Lys.  The  real  struggle  is  between  lords  and 
commons.  What  Bishop  Berthold  and  his  party  have  been  to 
us,  that  is  the  Count  de  Male  to  these  Flemings.  The  popular 
side  has  lost  a  brave  leader  in  John  Lyon.  He  revived  the 
White  Hoods,  and  stirred  up  all  Flanders  against  the  earl. 
But  two  at  least  of  the  new  captains,  John  Boule  and  Peter  du 
Bois,  bid  fair  to  fill  his  place.     When  I  was  at  Louvain,  the 

"•  Froissart,  book  ii.  chap.  40. 


c.  7.]  A  yourney  through  Flanders.  323 

troops  of  the  earl  were  besieged  in  Oudenarde  by  upwards  of  a 
hundred  thousand  men,  gathered  out  of  all  the  principal  towns, 
well  provisioned  and  appointed.  The  besiegers  were  very  strong 
in  cross-bow  men,  and  had  with  them  some  great  guns,  which 
did  no  small  damage.  Many  hot  assaults  were  made,  both  by 
land  and  water,  and  on  both  sides  many  brave  men  slain 
(Heaven  rest  their  souls !)  for  the  Flemings  were  no  whit  be- 
hind the  knights  in  foolhardiness.  When  I  left  Brabant,  report 
said  that  a  peace  was,  or  soon  would  be  concluded,  to  be  ratified, 
according  to  their  wont  there,  by  enormous  dinners.  Certain  it 
is  that  neither  Oudenarde  nor  Dendermonde  were  carried  after 
all." 

They  still  talked  at  Louvain  about  that  flower  of  chivalry 
Edward  III.  of  England,  who  was  there  for  a  season  some  few 
years  back."  His  princely  entertainments  to  lords  and  ladies 
left  the  country  full  of  golden  traditions  about  him.  The 
islanders  won  all  hearts  by  their  unparalleled  magnificence  and 
generosity.  They  say  the  English  king  called  James  von 
Artaveld — brewer  of  metheglin  as  he  was — his  cousin,  and  was 
passing  wroth  when  he  heard  of  his  murder.  Yet  methinks  he 
cares  but  little  after  all  for  the  Flemish  weavers,  save  as  they 
may  help  him  and  his  knights  against  France,  Nevertheless, 
the  weaker  France,  the  better  for  Germany.  I  think  I  under- 
stand why  our  emperor  Charles  so  flatters  the  pope.  If  his 
Holiness  could  confide  in  Germany  he  would  fain  break  with 
France.  Be  this  as  it  may,  not  a  word  now  is  heard  about  the 
claims  of  the  empire.  The  Ghibelline  cause  finds  no  leader. 
The  spirit  of  the  Hohenstaufen  lives  only  in  the  rhymes  of  the 
minstrel.  No  doubt  times  are  changed.  There  may  be  policy 
in  the  submission,  but  I  love  it  not.  The  Doctor  interpreted 
to  me  the  other  day  the  emperor's  Latin  motto,  which  set  me 
thinking.     It  means — the  best  use  you  can  make  of  your  own 

"  Froissart,  chapp.  41,  42.  "  Ibid.,  book  i.  cliap.  34. 


324         Gerj/Mn  Mysticism  in  the  14.^''  Cm  tar  v.        [b.  vt. 

wits  is  to  turn  to  good  account  the  follies  of  other  people/*  So 
cardinals  and  envoys  riding  to  and  fro,  plotting  and  treaty- 
making,  will  manage  Christendom  now,  not  strong  arms  and 
sword-strokes.  Whether,  in  the  end,  this  change  will  lead  to 
better  or  to  worse,  it  baffles  my  poor  brain  to  decide. 

We  set  out  from  Louvain  for  Griinthal,  quite  a  troop  of  us. 
There  was  a  noble  widow-lady,  with  her  attendants,  who  was 
going  to  crave  ghostly  counsel  from  the  prior.  She  had  lost 
her  husband  by  the  plague,  three  years  since,  and  appeared  still 
overwhelmed  with  grief,  speaking  to  no  one,  and  never  suffering 
her  face  to  be  seen.  Her  women,  when  not  near  her,  were 
merry  enough  with  the  followers  of  a  young  Frenchman  of 
family  who  carried  letters  to  Ruysbroek  from  his  uncle,  an 
abbot  in  Paris.  We  had  with  us  besides  two  Minorite  friars 
from  Guelders.  The  head  dresses  of  the  women  were  fit  for 
giantesses,  rising  up  like  a  great  horn,  with  long  ribbons  flut- 
tering from  the  top.  One  of  them  had  a  little  dagger  in  her 
girdle,  and  managed  a  spirited  horse  to  admiration.  The 
Frenchman,  with  whom  I  had  much  talk,  was  an  arrant  fop,  yet 
a  shrewd  lellow  withal.  He  jingled  like  a  jester  with  his  many 
.silver  bells,  his  hair  was  tied  behind  in  a  tail,  the  points  of  his 
shoes  turned  up,  his  parti-coloured  doublet  cut  short  round  (a 
new  fashion,  adopted  for  greater  swiftness  in  flying  from  an 
enemy),  and  his  beard,  long  and  bushy,  trimmed  with  a  sort  of 
studied  negligence.  He  gave  me  a  melancholy  account  of  the 
state  of  France,  divided  within,  overrun  by  the  English  in- 
vaders, nobles  plundering  and  burning — here  to-day  and  there 
to-morrow,  without  pity,  law,  or  loyalty  ;  knights  destroying, 
not  helping  the  weak  :  troops  of  robbers  surprising  castles  and 
even  taking  towns ;  and  the  wretched  peasantry  fain  often  to 
hide  themselves  and  their  cattle  for  weeks  and  months  in  great 
caves  hollowed  out  underneath  the  ground. 

^  Optimum  aliena  insania  friU, 


7-]  Rjiyshroek  on  the  Trinity.  325 


One  of  the  friars  told  me  a  story  current  about  Prior  Ruys- 
broek,  how,  one  day,  he  was  absent  longer  than  usual  in  the 
forest,  whither  he  was  accustomed  to  retire  for  meditation,  and 
as  some  of  the  brethren  went  to  seek  him  they  saw  a  tree  at  a 
distance  which  appeared  surrounded  by  fiery  glory.  The  holy 
man  was  sitting  at  its  foot,  lost  in  contemplation  !  The  Saviour 
and  our  Blessed  Lady  herself  are  said  to  have  appeared  to  him 
more  than  once." 

We  reached  Grimthal — a  great  building  of  exceeding  plain- 
ness— soon  after  nightfall.  Found  there  visitors  from  Brussels, 
so  that,  between  us,  nearly  all  the  guest  chambers  were  filled: 
The  good  Ruysbroek  has  been  there  but  a  year,  yet  if  he  is 
always  to  be  thus  sought  unto,  methinks  he  is  as  far  from  his 
longed-for  seclusion  as  ever.*" 

We  remained  three  weeks  at  Griinthal,  for  whenever  the 
Doctor  would  be  going,  the  good  Prior  so  besought  him  to  tarry 
longer  that  he  could  not  in  courtesy  say  him  nay.  Often  Ruys. 
broek  and  Tauler  would  spend  all  the  summer  morning  in  the 
lorest,  now  walking,  now  sitting  under  the  trees,  talking  of  the 
concerns  of  the  soul,  or  of  the  fears  and  hc/pes  awakened  by 
these  doubtful  times.  I  was  permitted  repeatedly  to  accompany 
them,  and  aftenvards  wrote  down  some  of  the  more  remarkable 
things  I  heard  said.  These  two  saintly  men,  prepared  to  love 
each  other  as  brothers  in  a  common  experience,  seemed  at  once 
to  grow  together  into  a  friendship  as  strong  as  though  many 
years  had  been  employed  in  the  building  thereof.  Neither  of 
them  vain,  neither  jealous,  each  was  for  humbling  himself 
beneath  the  other,  and  seemed  desirous  rather  to  hear  and  learn 
than  to  talk  about  himself 

Speaking  about  the  Son  of  God  and  the  soul  of  man,  Ruys- 

'*  Engelliardt,  p.  336.  manner  described,  and  also  that  Taii- 

'•''  It  is  cort.iiii  that   Ruysbroek  was  ler   was    among    the   visitors,    thougli 

visited   during  ihc  many  years  of  his  the  exact  time  of  his  journey    is  not 

residence  in  Griintlial,  much  after  the  known. 


326         German  Mysticism  in  the  14^^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

broek  said — '  I  believe  that  the  Son  is  the  Image  of  the  Father, 
that  in  the  Son  have  dwelt  from  all  eternity,  foreknown  and 
contemplated  by  the  Father,  the  prototypes  of  all  mankind. 
We  existed  in  the  Son  before  we  were  born — He  is  the  creative 
ground  of  all  creatures — the  eternal  cause  and  principle  of  their 
life.  The  highest  essence  of  our  being  rests  therefore  in  God, 
— exists  in  his  image  in  the  Son.  After  our  creation  in  time, 
our  souls  are  endowed  with  these  properties,  which  are  in  effect 
one  ;  the  first,  the  Imageless  Nudity,  {die  bildlose  Ahtckthcit) 
— by  means  of  this  we  receive  and  are  united  to  the  Father ; 
the  second,  the  Higher  Reason  of  the  Soul  {die  /where  Vermuift 
der  Scc/e),  the  mirror  of  brightness,  by  which  we  receive  the 
Son ;  the  thn^d,  the  Spark  of  the  Soul  {Fimkeji  der  Seek)  by 
which  we  receive  the  love  of  God  the  Holy  Ghost.  These  three 
faculties  are  in  us  all  the  ground  of  our  spiritual  life,  but  in  sin- 
ners they  are  obscured  and  buried  under  their  transgressions.^* 
'  The  office  of  the  Son  in  time  was  to  die  for  us,  fulfil  the 

">  See  Engelhardt,   pp.  189,  288. —  over,  1848.)     '  Wi  hebbcn  alle  boven 

According   to    Ruysbroek,    the  Trini-  onse  ghescapenheit    een    evvich  leuen 

tariau  process  lies  at  the  basis  of  the  in  gode  als  in  onse  leuende  sake  die 

kingdoms    both    of    Nature    and    of  ons  ghemaect  ende  ghescapen   heest 

Grace.     There  is  a  flowing  forth  and  van  niete,  maer  wi  en  sijn  niet   god 

manifestation   in  the   creative   Word,  nocli  wi  en   hebben   ons  seluen    niet 

— a  return  and  union  of  love  by  the  ghemaeckt.       IVi  en  sijn  00c  niet  -wt 

Holy   Ghost.     This  process   goes   on  godc    ghcvloteii    van    naiiiren,    maer 

continually  in  the  providential  govern-  want  ons  god   ewelijc  ghevoelt  heest 

nient   of    the    universe,    and    in    the  ende  bekent  in  hem  seluen,  so  heest  hi 

spiritual   life   of    believers.     The   up-  ons  ghemaeckt,  niet  van  naturen  noch 

holding  of  the  world,  and  the  mainte-  van   node,    maer    van    vriheit    sijns 

nance  of   the  work   of  grace  in   the  wi/len,' — 'p.zgi.  [Spiegel der Seligkeit, 

heart,    are    both  in  different  ways    a  xvii.) 

perpetual  bringing  forth  of  the  Son,  The  bosom  of  the  Father,  he  says, 
by  whom  all  things  consist,  and  who  is  our  proper  ground  and  origin  (der 
is  formed  in  every  devout  soul.  Ruys-  schois  des  vaders  is  onse  eygen  gront 
broek  is  careful  to  state  (as  a  caveat  ind  onse  oirsprunck)  ;  we  have  all, 
against  pantlieism)  that  such  process  therefore,  the  capacity  for  receiving 
is  no  necessary  development  of  the  God,  and  His  grace  enables  us  to  re- 
divine  nature, — it  is  tlie  good  pleasure  cognise  and  realise  this  latent  possibility 
of  the  Supreme.  (See  l^ier  Schrijten  (offenbairt  ind  brengit  vort  die  ver- 
von  J.  Ktiysbroek,  in  niederdeiiischer  boirgenheit  godes  in  wijsen), — p.  144. 
Sprache,*  by  A.  v.  Arnswaldt  ;  Han- 

■*  (i)  Die  Zierde  der  Geistlichen  Hochzeit ;  (2)    Von  dem  funkelnden  Steine  ;    (3)  Von 
Vier  Versuchunseii  :  (4)  Der  Spiegel  der  Seligkeit. 


I'.  7.]  The  Son  the  LigJit-bringcr.  327 

law,  and  give  us  a  divine  pattern  of  humility,  love,  and  patience 
He  is  the  fountain  whence  flows  to  us  all  needed  blessing,  and 
with  him  works  the  Holy  Spirit.  What  the  Son  did  he  did  for 
all — is  Light-bringer  for  all  mankind,  for  the  Catholic  Church 
especially,  but  also  for  every  devoutly-disposed  mind.  Grace  is 
common,  and  whoever  desires  it  has  it.  Without  it  no  natural 
powers  or  merits  can  save  us.  The  will  is  free  by  nature,  it 
becomes  by  grace  more  free ;  yea,  a  king,  lord  of  every  lower 
power,  crowned  with  Love,  clad  in  the  might  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  There  is  a  natural  will  towards  good  {Syndcrcsis) 
implanted  in  us  all,  but  damped  by  sin.  We  can  will  to  follow 
this  better  impulse,  and  of  ourselves  desire  the  help  of  divine 
grace,  without  which  we  can  never  overcome  sin  and  rise  above 
ourselves.  Everything  depends  on  will.  A  man  must  will 
right  strongly.  Will  to  have  humility  and  love,  and  they  are 
thine.  If  any  man  is  without  the  spirit  of  God,  it  is  his 
own  fault,  for  not  seeking  that  without  which  he  cannot  please 
Him." 

'  True  penitence  is  of  the  heart )  bodily  suffering  is  not  essen- 
tial. No  one  is  to  think  he  is  shut  out  from  Christ  because  he 
cannot  bear  the  torturing  penance  some  endure.  We  must 
never  be  satisfied  with  any  performance,  any  virtue — only  in 
the  abyss,  the  Nothingness  of  Humility,  do  we  rise  beyond  all 
heavens.  True  desire  after  God  is  not  kept  back  by  the 
sense  of  defect.     The  longing  soul  knows  only  this,  that  it  is 

'^  Engelhardt,  pp.  183,   186.     Ruys-  Ruysbroek  lays  great  stress  on  the 

broek  speaks  as  follows  of  that  fun-  exercise  of  the  will.     '  Ye  are  as  holy 

damental  tendency  godward  of  which  as  ye  truly  will  to  be  holy,"  said  he  one 

he   supposes    prevenient   grace    (vur-  day    to    two    ecclesiastics,     inquiring 

loiffende  gracic)  to  lay  hold  : — 'Ouch  concerning  growth  in  grace.     It  is  not 

bait  der  mynsche  cyn  naturlich  gront  difficult  to  reconcile  such  active  eftbrt 

neygen  zo  gode  overmitz  den  voncken  with  the  passivity  of  mysticism.     The 

der  sielen  ind  die  overste   reden  die  mystics   all  say,    '  We  strive  towards 

altzijt  begert  dat  goide  ind  hasset  dat  virtue  by  a  strenuous  use  of  the  gifts 

quaide.     Mit   desen  punteu  voirt  got  which   God   communicates,  but  when 

alle    mynschen  na  dat   sijs   behoeven  God  communicates  HimsclJ\  then  we 

ind   eciclichen    na    sinre    noit,'  &c. —  can  be  only    passive — we  repose,   wc 

Geistl.  Hochzcit,  cap.  3.  enjoy,  but  all  operation  ceases.' 


328         German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^  Century.        [b.  vi. 

bent  on  God.  Swallowed  up  in  aspiration,  it  can  take  heed  of 
nothing  more.'"  (A  very  weighty  saying  this,  methinks,  and 
helpful.) 

Speaking  of  the  inner  life,  and  the  union  of  the  soul  with 
(Jod,  Ruysbroek  said — 

'  God  dwells  in  the  highest  part  of  the  soul.    He  who  ascends 
this  height  has  all  things  under  his  feet.     We  are  united  to 
God  when,  in  the  practice  of  the  virtues,  we  deny  and  forsake 
ourselves,  loving  and  following  God  above  all  creatures.     We 
cannot  compel  God  by  our  love  to  love  us,  but  He  cannot  sanctify 
us  unless  we  freely  contribute  our  effort.    There  is  a  reciprocal 
desire  on  our  part  and  that  of  God.     The  free  inspiration  of 
God  is  the  spring  of  all  our  spiritual  life.    Thence  flows  into  us 
knowledge— an  inner  revelation  which  preserves  our  spirit  open, 
and,  lifting  us  above  all  images  and  all  disturbance,  brings  us 
to  an  inward  silence.     Here  the  divine  inspiration  is  a  secret 
whispering  in  the  inner  ear.     God  dwells  in  the  heart  pure  and 
free  from  every  image.     Then  first,  when  we  withdraw  into  the 
simplicitas  of  our  heart,  do  we  behold  the  immeasurable  glory 
of  God,  ai^d  our  intellect  is  as  clear  from  all  considerations  of 
distinction  and  figurative  apprehensions,   as  though  we  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  such  things.     Then  the  riches  of  God 
are  open  to  us.     Our  spirit  becomes  desireless,  as  though  there 
were  nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven  of  which  we  stood  in  need. 
Then  we  are  alone  with  God,  God  and  we — nothing  else.    Then 
we  rise  above  all  multiplicity  and  distinction  into  the  simple 
nakedness  of  our  essence,  and  in  it  become  conscious  of  the 
infinite   wisdom  of  the   Divine  Essence,  whose  inexhaustible 
depths  are  as  a  vast  waste,  into  which  no  corporeal  and  no 
spiritual  image  can  intrude.     Our  created  is  absorbed  in  our 
uncreated  life,  and  we  are  as  it  were  transformed  into  God. 
Lost  in  the  abyss  of  our  eternal  blessedness,  we  perceive  no 

IS  Engelhardt,  pp.  195,  199. 


c.  y]  Heretical  Mystics.  329 


distinction  between  ourselves  and  God.     As  soon  as  we  begin 

I 
to   reflect  and  to  consider  what  that  is  we  feel,  we  become, 

aware  of    such    distinction,   and   fall   back    to    the    level   of 

reason.'  ^' 

Here  Tauler  asked  whether  such  language  was  not  liable  to 
abuse  by  tlie  heretics  who  confound  man  and  God  ?  He 
referred  to  a  passage  in  the  Spiritual  Nuptials,  in  which  Ruys- 
broek  said  that  we  became  identical,  in  this  union,  with  the 
glory  by  which  we  are  illumined."" 

Ruysbroek  answered,  that  he  had  designed  to  qualify  duly  all 
such  expressions.  '  But  you  know,  Doctor,'  continued  he,  '  I 
have  not  your  learning,  and  cannct  at  all  times  say  so  accurately 
as  I  would  what  I  mean.  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and 
sucklings  ! — I  would  say  that  in  such  a  state  all  our  powers 
are  in  repose,  not  that  they  are  annihilated.  If  so,  we  should 
lose  our  existence  as  creatures.  We  are  one  with  God,  but  yet 
always  creature  existences  distinct  from  God.  I  do  humbly 
believe,  let  my  enemies  say  what  they  may,  that  I  wrote  no 
word  of  that  book  save  at  the  impulse  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and 
with  a  peculiar  and  most  blessed  presence  to  my  soul  of  the 
Holy  Trinity.  But  what  shall  I  call  this  blessedness.?  It 
includes  peace,  inward  silence,  afi'ectionate  hanging  on  the 
source  of  our  joy,  sleep  in  God,  contemplation  of  the  heaven 
of  darkness,  far  above  reason.''^ 

The  conversation  then  turned  on  the  heresies  of  the  time,  the 

"  F.ngelhardt,  pp.  201,  213.     In  the  alsoe    lange    moegen     wy    schouwen 

season     of   spiritual    exaltation,    the  ende    gebruken.      Men  in  den  seluen 

powers  of  the  soul  are,  as  it  were,  ab-  ogenblijc  dat  wy  proeven  ende  merken 

sorbed  in  absolute  essential  enjoyment  willen  wat  dat  is  dat  wy  geuoelen,  so 

(staen  ledich  ineen  weselicgebruckcn).  vallen  wy  in  reden,  ende  dan  vynden 

But    they    are    not    annihilated,    for  wy  onderscheit  endeanderheit  tusschen 

then    we   should  lose    our    creatureli-  ons  ende  gade,    ende  dan  vynden  wy 

ness. — Mer  si  en  werden  niet  te  niete,  gade  buten  ons  in  onbegripelicheiden, 

want   soe   verloeren   wy  onse  gcscap-  —  Von  dcmfunkelndcn  Slcine,  x. 

enheit.       Knde    alsoe   -lange    als    wy  ^  See  first  Note,  p.  338. 

mit  geneichden  geeste  ende  mit  apen  -'  .See  second  Note,  p.  338. 
ogen    sonder    merken    ledich    staen, 


330  German  Mysticism  in  the  14'^  Century.        [d.  vi. 

corruptions  of  the  Church  and  of  the  State,  and  other  practical 
matters  more  within  my  compass.  Ruysbroek  said  that  the 
great  sin  and  error  of  these  heretics  lay  in  their  aspiring  to 
union  with  God  by  a  summary  and  arrogant  method  of  their 
own.  They  persuaded  themselves  that,  merely  by  ceasing  to 
think  and  distinguish,  they  could  withdraw  themselves  into  the 
essence  of  their  nature,  and  so,  without  the  help  of  grace  or 
the  practice  of  virtue,  attain  by  bare.nature  the  rest  and  blessed- 
ness of  absolute  simplicity  and  superiority  to  all  modes  and 
images. 

'  Verily,'  quoth  Tauler,  '  though  they  give  themselves  out  for 
the  wisest  and  the  holiest,  it  is  only  themselves,  not  God,  they 
enjoy.  Yet  mischievous  as  they  are,  often  as  I  have  preached 
against  them,  I  never  have  taken,  nor  shall  I  take,  any  part  in 
their  persecution. '°^ 

'  I  have  had  plentiful  opportunity,'  continued  Ruysbroek, '  for 
observing  these  men.     I  would  divide  them  into  four  classes.'' 

-■^  Engelhardt,    i^  225.      Schmidt's  Thank   heaven  !  I    haven't   a  disthict 

lauur,    p.    61. —  Ihe  same  doctrine  idea  in  my  head  ' 

which  furnished  a  sanctuary  for    the         It  is  so  that  the  popular  mind  is  sure 

devotion  of  purer  natures  supphed  also  to    travesty    the    ultra-refinements    of 

an  excuse  for  the  licence  of  the  base,  philosophy 

Wilful  perversion,  or  mere  ignorance,  '^  Engelhardt,  pp.  224-228  -Eckart 

or  some  one  of  the  manifold  combina-  like  Hegel,   would  seem   to  have  left 

tions  of  these  two  factors,  would  work  behind  him  a  right-hand  and  a  left- 

the  mystical  exhortation  into  some  such  hand  party,-admirers  like  Suso  and 

resuh  as  that  denounced  by  Ruysbroek.  Tauler,    who    dropped    his    extreme 

We    may   imagine    some    bewildered  points  and  held  by  such  savin- clauses 

man  as  speaking  thus  within  himself:  as  they  found  ;  and  headstrong  spirits 

—  bo  we  are  to  covet  ignorance,   to  ripe  for  anarchy,  like  these  New-Licdits 

surmount  distinctions,  to  shun  what  is  or  High-Fliers.  the  representative  of 

clear  or  vivid  as  mediate  and    com-  mysticism    run   to  seed.     Ruvsbroek's 

paratively  carnal,  to  transcend  means  classification  of  them  is  somevvhat  arti- 

and  bid  farewell  to  the  wisdom  of  the  ficial  ;   fanaticism  does  not  distribute 

schools.    Wise  and  devout  men  forsake  itself  theologically.      In   the    treatise 

all  their  learning,    forget   their  pious  entitled  Spia;el  dcr  Scli^keU,  §  16   he 

toil  and  penance,  to  lose  themselves  in  describes  them  generally  as  follows  •— 

tliat  ground  in  which  we  are  united  to  '  Ander  quade  duulische  menschen  vint 

Orod,— to  sink  into  vague  abstract  con-  men,  die  segghen  dat  si  selue  Cristus 

fusion.      But  may  I   not    do   at   first  sijn  of  dat  si  god  sijn,  ende  dat  haer 

what  they  do  at  last?     Why  take  in  hant  hemel  ende  erde  ghemaect  heest 

only  to  take  out?    I  am  empty  already,  ende  dat  an  haer  hant  hanghet  hemel 


c.  7.]  Heretical  Mystics.  331 

First  of  all  there  are  those  whose  doctrine  sins  especially  against 
the  Holy  Ghost.  They  say  the  essential  Godhead  works  not, 
but  the  Holy  Ghost  doth  :  that  they  belong  to  that  Divine 
Essence,  and  will  rest  in  like  manner ; — that  they  are,  there- 
fore, above  the  Spirit  of  God,  They  hold  that,  after  time,  all 
things  will  be  God,  one  absolute  Quiescence,  without  distinc- 
tion and  without  change.  So  they  will  neither  know  nor  act, 
neither  think  nor  thank,  but  be  free  from  all  desire,  all  obliga- 
tion. This  they  call  Poverty  of  Spirit.  I  say  it  is  a  devilish 
poverty,  and  such  souls  must  be  poor  as  hell  in  divine  love  and 
knowledge. 

'  The  second  class  say,  with  like  blasphemy,  '  We  are  divine 
by  nature.  There  is  one  God,  and  we  are  identical  with  Him. 
We  with  Him  have  created  all  things ;  if  we  had  not  chosen, 
we  had  not  been  born.  It  was  our  own  choice  to  exist  as  we 
do.  God  can  do  nothing  without  us,  and  we  give  Him  there- 
fore no  preference,  pay  Him  no  homage.  Honour  to  Him  is 
honour  to  us.  What  we  are  we  would  be,  what  we  would  be 
we  are  ;  with  God  we  have  created  ourselves  and  all  things  ; 
heaven  and  earth  hang  on  our  will.'  This  insane  spiritual 
pride  is  flatly  contrary  to  all  catholic  doctrine. 

'  The  third  class  sin  not  less  against  the  Son.  They  say,  we 
are  as  much  incarnate  as  Christ  was,  and,  in  the  same  sense, 
divine  sons  of  God.     Had  He  lived  long  enough.  He  would 

ende  erde  ende  alle  dine,  ende  dat  si  heresy — the  oiTspring  of  John  Scotus, 

verheuen   sijn   boven    alle  die    sacra-  popularised  by  David  of    Dinant  and 

menten  der  heiligher  kerken,  ende  dat  his  followers.     The  final  restitution  is 

si  der  niet   en  behoeuen   noch   si   en  to   consist    in    the    resolution    of   all 

\villen  der  ooc   niet."     He   represents  creatures  into  the  Divine  Substance  : — 

their  claim  to   identity  with   God   as  '  So  spreken  si  voort  dat  in  den  lesten 

leading  to  a  total  moral  indifference  daglie  des  ordels  enghele  ende  duuele, 

(§  17): — '  Ende  sulke  wanen  god  sijn,  goede    ende  quade,   dese    sullen  alle 

ende  si  en  achten  gheen  dincgoet  Tioch  warden  eeii  eeiivotidiqhe  siibslaiicic  der 

quaet,  in  dien  dat  si  hem  ontbeclden  godheit  ....  ende  na  dan,  spreken  si 

connen  ende  in  blotcr  Icdichcit   haer  voort,  en  sal  god  bekennen  noch  min- 

eiglicn wesen  vindcn  endebesitten  mog-  nen  hein  seluen  noch  giiene  creature' — 

hen.'  Their  idea  of  the  consummation  (§  i6). 
of  all  things  savours  of  the  Parisian 


332         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4''''  Century.        \y..  vi. 

have  attained  to  the  same  contemplative  quiet  we  enjoy. 
Retired  into  our  inmost  selves,  we  find  ourselves  the  same 
Wisdom  of  God  which  Christ  is.  When  He  is  honoured,  we 
are  honoured,  for  we  are  identical  with  Him. 

'  The  fourth  class  declare  that  neither  God  nor  themselves, 
heaven  nor  hell,  action  nor  rest,  good  nor  evil,  have  any  real 
existence.  They  deny  God  and  the  work  of  Christ,  Scripture, 
sacraments, — everything.  God  is  nothing ;  they  are  nothing  ; 
the  universe  is  nothing. 

'  Some  hold  doctrines  such  as  these  in  secret,  and  conform 
outwardly,  for  fear.  Others  make  them  the  pretext  for  every 
kind  of  vice  and  insolent  insubordination.  Of  a  truth  we 
should  cross  ourselves  when  we  but  speak  of  them,  as  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  spirits  from  the  pit.' 

'  And  what  hope,'  said  Tauler,  '  of  better  things,  while  the 
Church  is  crowded  with  hirelings,  and,  with  lust  and  bravery, 
everywhere  leads  on  the  world  in  sin  ?' 

'  What  hope,  indeed  !'  mournfully  responded  Ruysbroek. 
'  The  grace  of  the  sacraments  is  shamefully  bought  and  sold. 
Rich  transgressors  may  live  as  they  list.  The  wealthy  usurer 
is  buried  before  the  altar,  the  bells  ring,  the  priest  declares  him 
blessed.  I  declare  that  if  he  died  in  unrighteousness,  not  all 
the  priests  in  Christendom,  not  all  his  hoards  lavished  to  feed 
the  poor,  could  save  him  from  perdition.  See,  too,  the  monks, 
mendicants  and  all,  what  riches  I  what  sumptuous  fare  !  what 
licence,  in  violation  of  every  vow  !  what  odious  distinctions  ! 
Some  have  four  or  five  garments,  another  scarcely  one.  Some 
revel  with  the  prior,  the  guardian,  and  the  lector  in  the  refec- 
tory, at  a  place  of  their  own.  Others  must  be  content  witli 
herring  and  cabbage,  washed  down  with  sour  beer.  Little  by 
little  the  habit  is  changed,  black  becomes  brown,  grey  is 
exchanged  for  blue,  the  white  must  be  of  the  finest  stuff,  the 
shape  of  the  newest  cut.' 


7-]  Ecclesiastical  Corruption.  333 


'This,'  said  Tauler,  'is  what  I  so  much  admire  in  your  little 
community  here.  You  have  practically  abolished  those  mis- 
chievous distinctions,  the  cause  of  so  much  bitterness  in  our 
religious  houses.  Every  one  has  his  place,  but  no  one  is  de- 
graded. You  yourself  will  perform  the  meanest  offices,  as  the 
other  morning,  when  Arnstein  found  you  sweeping  the  lec- 
torium.  Yours  is  the  true  canonical  life — the  life  of  a  iamily. 
Every  one  is  ready  to  do  kind  offices  for  his  brethren,  and  your 
own  example  teaches  daily  forgetfulness  of  self.' 

Ruysbroek  looked  uneasy  under  these  praises,  and  they  spoke 
again  of  the  prevalent  evils  in  the  Church.'* 

'  How  many  nuns  have  I  seen,'  said  Ruysbroek,  *  daintily 
attired,  with  silver  bells  to  their  girdles,  whose  prison  was 
the  cloister  and  their  paradise  the  world  !  A  retinue  of  forty 
reiters  is  a  moderate  attendance  for  a  prelate  out  on  a  visitation. 
I  have  known  some  priests  who  engaged  themselves  as  business 
agents  to  laymen  ;  others  who  have  entered  the  service  of  ladies 
of  rank,  and  walked  behind  them  as  footmen  into  church.  A 
criminal  has  but  to  pay  money  down,  and  he  may  serve  the 
devil  for  another  year.  A  trim  reckoning,  and  satisfaction  for 
all  parties  !  The  bishop  gets  the  gold,  the  devil  gets  the 
soul,  and  the  miserable  fool  the  moment's  pleasure  of  his 
lust.' " 

When,  one  day,  they  were  conversing  on  future  rewards  and 
punishments,  I  remember  hearing  Ruysbroek  say — '  I  trust  I  am 


-■•  Engelhardt,  pp.   326-336. — Good  then  saw  was  not  without  its  inHueiic- 

Ruysbroek  was   fully   entitled    to   the  in  the  formation   of   that   community 

encomium  placed  in  the  mouth  of  Tau-  with   which    his  name  is  associated— 

ler.     He  himself,  like   Bernard,  would  the  Brethren  of  the  Common  Life.— 

frequently  perform  the  meanest  offices  See    UUniann,    R eformatoren  vor  der 

of   the  cloister.     The  happy  spirit  of  Reformation,  vol.  ii. 
brotherhood   which    prevailed   ainong  '^  Engelhardt,    p.  330. — Ruysbroek 

the  canons  of  Griinthal  made  a  deep  inveighs  with  much  detail  against  the 

impression  on  that  laborious  practical  vanities  of  female  dress— as  to  those 

reformer,  Gerard  Groot,  wlien,  in  1378,  hair-pads,  sticking  up  like  great  horns, 

he  visited  the   aged  prior.     What  he  they  are  just  so  many  '  de\irs  nests.' 


334        German  Mysticism  in  the  \  a,*''  Century.        [b.  vi. 

ready  for  all  God  sends  me,  life  or  death,  or  even  hell-pains 
themselves.'    An  attainment  of  virtue  inconceivable  to  me.^° 

At  Griinthal  I  saw  much  of  a  lay  brother  named  John 
Affliginiensis,  the  cook  of  the  community."'  He  accompanied 
Ruysbroek  thither.  Though  wholly  unlettered,  he  serves  daily 
as  a  goodly  ensample  of  the  active  and  contemplative  life  united. 
It  is  his  calling  to  see  to  the  dinners  of  the  brethren  ;  he  is  scarce 
less  helpful  to  their  devotions.  That  he  is  a  good  plain  cook  I 
can  bear  witness,  and  to  the  edifying  character  of  the  discourses 
he  sometimes  delivers  to  the  canons,  all  testify.  He  scarcely 
sleeps  at  all,  goes  meanly  clad,  and  eats  the  veriest  refuse  of  the 
convent  fare.  He  is  one  of  the  meekest  and  most  humble  of  men 
— has  had  his  sore  fights  of  temptation,  fierce  inward  purgations, 
and  also  his  favoured  hours  and  secret  revelations.  Ruysbroek 
loves  him  like  a  brother.  The  esteem  in  which  he  is  held,  and 
the  liberty  of  speech  allowed  him,  is  characteristic  of  the  simple 
and  brotherly  spirit  which  dwells  among  these  worthy  canons. 
Griinthal  is  not,  like  so  many  religious  houses,  a  petty  image  of 
the  pettiest  follies  of  the  world.  There  they  do  seem  to  have 
withdrawn  in  spirit  from  the  strife  and  pomp  of  secular  life. 


*^  Ruysbroek  expressed  himself  in  the  friends,  and  the  sons.  Those 
these  words  to  Gerard  Groot  (Engel-  worshippers  who  stand  in  the  relation 
hardt,  p.  i68).  In  his  touching  de-  of  friends  have  still  something  of  their 
scription  of  the  '  desolation'  endured  own  (besitten  oer  inwendichkeit  mit 
by  the  soul  on  its  way  upward  toward  eygenscap)  in  their  love  to  God.  The 
the  'super-essential  contemplation,'  sons  ascend,  '  dying- wise, '  to  an  abso- 
he  makes  the  sufferer  say, —  'O  Lord,  lute  emptiness.  The  friends  still  set 
since  I  am  thine  (want  ich  din  eygen  value  on  divine  bestowments  and  ex- 
bin),  I  would  as  soon  be  in  hell  as  in  periences  ;  the  sons  are  utterly  dead  to 
heaven,  if  such  should  be  thy  good  self,  in  bare  modeless  love  (in  bloeter ; 
pleasure  ;  only  do  thy  glorious  will  wiseloeser  mynnen).  Yet,  very  incon- 
with  me,  O  Lord  !' — Geistl.  Hochzeit,  sistently,  he  representsthe  sons  as  more 
§30.  Ruysbroek,  like  Fenelon,  aban-  assured  of  eternal  life  than  the  friends, 
dons  himselt  thus  only  on  the  sup-  (Vo?i  dem/it/ikel/ideii  Steine,  §  8.) 
position  that  even  in  hell  he  should  -^  A  veritable  personage.  He  died 
still  retain  the  divine  favour ; — so  im-  in  1377,  and  left  behind  him  a  book 
possible  after  all  is  the  absolute  dis-  recording  the  conflicts  he  underwent 
interestedness  toward  which  Quietism  and  the  revelations  vouchsafed  him, 
aspires.  The  Flemish  mystic  distin-  (Engelhardt,  p.  326.) 
guishes  between  the  servants  of  God, 


c.  7.]  Mjiscatblut.  335 

Gladly  would  I  spend  my  last  years  among  the  beeches  and  tlie 
oaks  that  shut  in  their  holy  peace.  But  while  I  may  I  must 
be  doing ;  had  my  call  been  to  the  contemplative  life  I  should 
have  been  moulded  in  another  fashion. 

On  our  journey  back  from  Louvain  I  had  rare  entertainment. 
We  had  scarcely  passed  out  beyond  the  gates,  when  Tauler 
rode  forward,  in  deep  discourse  with  an  ecclesiastic  of  the  party. 
A  hasty  glance  at  our  fellow-travellers,  as  we  mustered  at  the 
door  of  the  hostelry,  had  not  led  me  to  look  for  any  company 
likely  to  eke  out  a  day's  travel  with  aught  that  was  pleasant 
or  of  profit.  But  I  was  mistaken.  I  espied  ere  long,  a  neat, 
merry-looking  little  man,  in  a  minstrel's  habit,  with  a  gittern 
slung  at  his  back.  To  him  I  joined  himself,  and  he,  pleased 
evidently  with  the  notice  I  took  of  him,  sang  me  songs 
and  told  me  stories  all  the  way.  He  said  his  name  was  Mus- 
catblut,  and  I  was  not  sorry  to  be  able  to  gratify  him  by  an- 
swering that  his  fame  had  already  reached  my  ears."^  He  had 
store  of  songs,  with  short  and  long  lines  curiously  interwoven  in 
a  way  of  his  own,  a  very  difficult  measure  to  write,  as  he  assured 
me — the  very  triumph  of  his  heart.  These  love-lays  he  inter- 
spersed with  riddles  and  rhyming  proverbs,  with  quaint  alle- 
gories, satires  on  clerks  and  monks,  and  stories  about  husbands 
and  wives,  making  all  within  hearing  roll  in  their  saddles  with 
laughter.  He  had  likewise  certain  coarse  songs,  half  amatory, 
half  devotional,  tagged  with  bits  of  slang  and  bits  of  Latin, 
about  the  wooing  of  our  Lady.  I  told  him,  to  his  surprise,  to 
stop  ;  it  was  flat  blasphemy.  He  said  the  voluptuous  passages 
of  his  lay  were  after  Frauenlob's  best  manner,  and  as  to  the 
sacred  personages,  by  St.  Bartholomew  !  many  a  holy  clerk  had 
praised  that  part  most  of  all,  calling  it  a  deep  allegory,  most 
edifying  to  the  advanced  believer. 

2*  The  lyrics  of  Muscatblut  are  account,  from  the  Limhirg  Chronicle, 
characterised  by  Gervinus  (ii.  p.  225),  of  the  famous  friar,  leper,  and  poet 
and  the  same  authority   gives  some      mentioned  by  Arnstein. 


33^        Gcnuan  Mysticism  in  the  14'''^  Centicry.        [b.  vi. 

At  Cologne  I  parted  from  the  Doctor  with  many  embraces. 
On  my  way  back  to  Strasburg  I  took  boat  up  the  Mayne  to 
Frankfurt,  whither  business  called  me.  We  passed  a  little  woody 
island  in  the  midst  of  the  river,  which  was  pointed  out  to  me  as 
the  residence  of  the  leprous  barefooted  friar,  whose  songs  and 
airs  are  so  popular  throughout  the  Rhineland.  I  looked  with 
reverence  at  the  melancholy  spot.  There  he  dwells  alone,  shut 
out  from  mankind,  yet  delighting  and  touching  every  heart. 
His  songs  are  sweet  as  the  old  knightly  lays  of  love,  fuH  of 
courtly  grace  and  tenderness,  and  yet  they  are  songs  for  the 
people  from  one  truly  of  themselves.  The  burgher  has  his 
minstrelsy  now,  as  well  as  the  noble.  This  at  least  is  a  good 
sign. 


Note  to  page  321. 

From  ibis  time  forward,  Rulman  Merswin  gave  himself  up  to  the  spiritual 
guidance  of  Nicholas  the  layman— taking  him  to  be  to  liim  '  in  God's  stead.' 
He  took  no  step  without  his  direction,  and  wrote  at  his  command  his  book 
entitled  \'on  dc?i  vier  ioren  sins  atievohc?idi'n  Icbeiides — a  record  of  what  may 
be  called  his  spiritual  apprenticeship.  Nicholas  took  a  copy  of  it  back  with 
bim  to  ihe  Oberland.  Sclimidt  has  brought  together  what  is  known  of  Mers- 
v\in,  in  tlie  Appendix  to  his  life  of  Tauler,  pp.  177,  &c. 

The  Book  0/  the  Nine  Rocks  was  commenced  in  1352.  It  has  been  pub- 
lished in  Diepenbrock's  edition  of  the  works  of  Suso,  to  whom  it  was,  till  re- 
cently, attributed.  The  claim  of  Merswin  to  its  authorship  is  establislied 
bevond  question — (Schmidt,  180).  The  work  opens  by  relating  how,  early  one 
morning  in  Advent,  a  man  (the  author)  was  warned  of  God  to  prepare  himself, 
by  inward  retirement,  for  that  which  He  should  show  him.  He  was  made  lo 
behold  a  vision  full  of  strange  and  alarming  appearances.  He  cried  out,  '  Ah, 
my  heart's  I.,ove  !  what  meanest  thou  with  these  mysterious  symbols?'  He 
struggled  hard  against  the  phantoms  of  his  trance,  but  the  marvellous  forms 
only  multiplied  the  more.  He  was  constrained  by  a  divine  voice  to  gaze,  .ind 
commanded,  in  spite  of  his  humble  remonstrances,  to  write  in  a  book  what  he 
saw — the  image  of  the  corruptions  of  Christendom,  for  the  warning  o!  the 
guilty  and  the  edification  of  the  faithful.  The  dialogues  are  given  at  length 
between  liim  and  God — 'the  Man'  and  'the  Answer.'  For  eleven  weeks,  in 
.sickness  and  spiritual  distress,  he  wavered.  He  was  but  a  poor,  ignorant  lay- 
man ;  how  should  he  presume  to  exhort  the  Ciuirch?  'The  Voice  of  tiie 
Answer'  is  heard  saying,  '  Came  not  thy  reluctance  from  humility,  I  would 
consign  thee  to  the  pit.  I  see  I  must  compel  thee.  In  the  name  of  the  Holy 
1  rinity,  1  command  tliee  to  begin  to  write  lljis  day.' 

The  souls  of  men  proceeding  from  God,  but  few  of  them  returning  to  their 
Original,  are  shown  him  under  the  similitude   of  multitudes  of  tish,   brought 


c.  7.]         Geyman  Mysticism  in  the  14'^'  Century.         337 

down  by  the  descent  of  great  watei"s  from  the  summit  of  a  mountain.  Men 
in  the  valley  are  catching  them  in  nets.  Scarce  half  of  them  reach  the  sea  below. 
There  the  remnant  swim  in  all  directions,  and  at  length  endeavour  to  leap  back, 
up  to  the  source  whence  they  came.  Numbers  are  taken  in  the  nets  ;  only  a 
few  reach  even  the  base  of  the  mountain.  Some  who  ascend  higher  fall  back 
upon  the  locks  and  die.  A  very  few,  springing  from  rock  to  rock,  reach  ex- 
hausted, the  fountain  at  the  top,  and  there  forget  their  pains. 

The  twenty  following  chapters  are  occupied  with  a  dialogue,  in  which  the 
divine  Voice  enumerates  the  characteristic  sins  of  all  classes  of  mankind,  from 
the  pope  to  the  begging  friar — from  the  emperor  to  the  serf. 

Then  commences  the  vision  of  the  Nine  Rocks.  A  mountain,  enormous  in 
breadth  and  height,  fills  all  the  scene.  As  the  eye  travels  up  the  ascent,  it 
beholds  nine  steep  rocks,  each  loftier  than  that  which  preceded  it, — the  highest 
lost  in  the  heavens.  From  the  lowest  the  whole  surface  of  the  earth  is  visible. 
A  net  is  spread  over  all  the  region  beneath,  but  it  does  not  reach  the  mountain. 
The  multitudes  seen  beneath  it  are  men  in  mortal  sm.  The  men  standing  on 
the  first  and  lowest  rock  are  religious  persons,  but  such  as  are  lukewarm,  de- 
fective in  aspiration  and  in  zeal.  They  dwell  dangerously  near  the  net—  (cap. 
x.\iii.).  Some,  from  the  first  rock,  are  seen  making  their  way  up  the  precipice, 
and  reaching  the  second,  where  they  become  of  dazzling  brightness.  Those 
on  the  second  rock  have  heartily  forsaken  the  world ;  they  will  suffer  less  in 
purgatory,  enjoy  more  in  heaven,  than  those  beneath  ;  but  they,  too,  are  far 
from  their  Origin  yet,  and  in  danger  of  spiritual  pride,  self-seeking,  and  of 
growing  faint  and  remiss  in  their  painful  progress — (cap.  xxiv.).  Those  on  the 
third  rock,  fewer  in  number,  suffering  far  more  severely  in  time,  are  nearer  to 
God,  will  suffer  little  in  purgatory,  and  are  of  yet  more  glorious  aspect  than 
their  predecessors — (cap.  xxv.).  Such  is  the  process  to  the  summit.  All  the 
nine  rocks  must  be  surmounted,  would  we  return  to  our  Divine  Source.  But 
few  attain  the  last,  which  is  indeed  the  Gate  of  the  Origin — the  consummate 
blessedness,  in  which  the  believer,  fearless  of  hell  and  purgatory,  has  an- 
nihilated self,  and  hath  no  wish  or  will  save  that  of  God.  One  of  these 
true  worshippers  brings  more  blessing  to  Christendom  than  thousands  of  such 
as  live  after  their  own  will,  and  know  not  that  they  are  nothing. 

Finally,  '  the  man'  is  permitted  a  moment's  glance  into  the  Divine  'Origin.' 
The  rapture  of  that  moment  he  attempted  in  vain  to  describe  ; — no  reflection, 
no  image,  could  give  the  least  hint  of  it. 

Both  Rulnian  and  '  the  Friend  of  God  in  the  Oberland'  believed  themselves 
repeatedly  warned  of  God  in  visions,  that  they  should  build  a  house  for  him  in 
Strasburg.  The  merchant  purchased  a  ruined  cloister  on  a  little  island  in  the 
river  111,  without  the  city  walls.  He  restored  the  church,  and  erected  a  stone 
belfry.  Nicholas  advised  him  to  bestow  it  on  the  Johannites,  in  preference  to 
any  other  Order, — for  there  had  been  no  little  rivalry  among  the  monks  as  to 
who  was  to  enjoy  the  gift.  The  conditions  of  the  deed  for  which  he  stipulated 
with  the  Master  of  the  Order  are  indicative  of  the  new  and  more  elevated 
position  which  mysticism  had  taught  the  laity  to  claim.  The  government  of 
the  house  was  to  rest  entirely  with  a  lay  triumvirate  ;  the  two  survivors  always 
to  choose  a  third.  The  first  three  governors  were  Rulrnan  himself,  Heinzmann 
Wetzel,  knight,  and  Tohn  Merswin,  burg-graf.  The  admission  of  brethren 
rested  with  these  heads  of  the  house,  and  they  were  free  to  receive  any  one, 
clerk  or  layman,  knight  or  serving  man,  whether  belonging  to  the  ord'^r  of  St. 
John  or  not,  requiring  only  that  he  should  bring  with  him  the  moderate 
sum  requisite  to  render  his  residence  no  burden  on  the  convent.  (Schmidt, 
p.  189.) 

VOT,.  I.  Z 


338        German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4    Century.        [b.  vi. 

Note  to  page  329. 

The  passage  to  which  Tauler  is  made  to  refer  is  contained  in  the  third  book 
of  the  Spiritual  Nuptials,  chap.  5: — 'Ind  alledie  minschen  die  bouen  ir  gesch- 
affenheit  verhauen  sin  in  eyn  schauwende  leuen,  die  synt  eyn  mit  deser  gotlicher 
clairheit,  ind  sij  sint  die  clairheit  selver.  Ind  sy  sien  ind  gevoilen  ind  vynden 
sich  selver  ouermitz  dit  gotliche  licht,  dat  sy  sin  der  selue  eynveldige  gront  na 
wijse  irre  ungeschaflenheit,  da  de  clairheit  sender  mias  vs  schynfin  gotlicher 
wijsen  ind  na  sympelheit  des  wesens  eynueldich  binnen  blijfft  ewelich  sonder 
wise.  Ind  hervm  soilen  die  innyge  schauwende  minschen  vsgayn  na  wijse  des 
schauwens  bouen  reden  ind  boutn  vnderscheit  ind  bouen  ir  geschaflfen  wesen 
mit  ewigen  instarren  ouermitz  dat  ingeboiren  licht,  soe  werden  sy  getransformeirt 
ind  eyn  mit  desem  seluen  licht  da  sy  mede  sien  ind  dat  sy  sien.  Ind  also 
vervolgen  die  schauwende  mJnschen  ir  ewich  bilde  da  si  zo  gemacht  sin  ind 
beschauwen  got  ind  alle  dinck  sonder  vnderscheit  in  eyme  eynveldigen  sien  in 
gotliclier  clairheit.  In  dat  is  dat  edelste  ind  dat  vrberhchste  schauwen  da  men 
zo  komen  mach  in  desem  leuen." — Vicr  Schriften,  p.   144. 

[And  all  men  who  are  exalted  above  their  creatureliness  into  a  contemplative 
life  are  one  with  this  divine  glory, — yea,  are  that  glory-  And  they  see,  and 
feel,  and  find  in  themselves,  by  means  of  this  divine  light,  that  they  are  the 
same  simple  Ground  as  to  their  uncreated  nature  {i.e.,  in  respect  of  their  ideal 
pre-existence  in  the  Son),  since  the  glory  shineth  forth  without  measure,  after 
the  divine  manner,  and  abideth  within  them  simply  and  without  mode  (par- 
ticular manifestation  or  medium),  according  to  the  simplicity  of  the  essence. 
Wherefore  interior  contemplative  men  should  go  forth  in  the  way  of  contem- 
plation above  reason  and  distinction,  beyond  their  created  substance,  and  gaze 
perpetually  by  the  aid  of  their  inborn  light,  and  so  they  become  transformed, 
and  one  with  the  same  light,  by  7neans  of  which  they  see,  and  which  they  see. 
Thus  do  contemplative  men  arrive  at  that  eternal  image  after  which  they  were 
created,  and  contemplate  God  and  all  things  without  distinction  in  a  simple 
beholding,  in  divine  glory.  And  this  is  the  loftiest  and  most  profitable  con- 
templation whereto  men  may  attain  in  this  life.] 

This  passage,  and  others  like  it,  gave  rise  to  the  charge  of  pantheism  brought 
by  Gerson  against  Ruysbroek  in  the  following  century.  The  prior  of  Grlinthal 
found  a  defender  in  Schonhoven,  who  pointed  with  justice  to  numerous  ex- 
pressions in  the  writings  of  the  accused,  altogether  incompatible  with  the  heresy 
alleged.  Quite  inconsistent  with  any  confusion  of  the  divine  and  human  is 
Ruysbroek's  fine  description  of  the  insatiable  hunger  of  the  soul — growing  by 
that  it  feeds  on, — the  consciousness  that  all  possessed  is  but  a  drop  to  the 
illimitable  undeemed  Perfection  yet  beyond.  ('  Wi  leren  in  waerheit  sijns  aen- 
schijns  dat  al  dat  wi  gesmaken  tegen  dat  ons  ontblijft  dat  en  is  niet  een  draep 
tegen  al  die  zee,  dit  verstormt  onsen  geest  in  hetten  ende  in  ongeduer  van 
mynnen.' — Von  dem  futikelnden  Steine,  x.  p.  194.)  So  again  he  says,  'Wantwy 
enmogen  te  mael  niet  got  werden  ende  onse  gescapenheit  verliesen,  dat  is  on- 
moegelic' — p.  190  ;  and  similarly  that  we  become  one  with  God  in  love,  not  in 
nature,  ('ouerformet  ende  een  mit  hem  insijnre  minnen,  niet  in  sijnre  naturen.') 
— Spiegel  der  Seligkeit,  xxiv. 

Note  to  page  329. 

Ruysbroek  expressed  to  Gerard  Groot,  in  these  very  words,  his  belief  in  the 
special  guidance  of  the  Holy  Spirit  vouchsafed  for  the  composition  of  his  book.' 
on  these  'deep  things'  of  the  kingdom.     (Engelhardt,  p.   168.) 

The  doctrine  of  Ruysbroek  is  substantially  the  same  with  that  of  his  friend 
and  brother-mystic,  Tauler.     Whether  speaking  the  high  German  of  the  upper 


c.  7.]         GcrmaJi  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'*  Century.        339 

Rhine  or  the  low  German  of  the  Netherlands,  mysticism  gives  utterance  to  the 
same  complaint  and  the  same  aspiration.  Ruysbroek  is  individually  less  specu- 
lative than  Eckart,  less  practical  than  Tauler.  The  Flemish  mystic  is  a  more 
submissive  son  of  tlie  Church  than  the  stout-hearted  Dominican  of  Strasburg, 
and  lays  proportionally  more  stress  on  what  is  outward  and  institutional.  He 
is  fond  of  handling  his  topics  analytically.  His  numerous  divisions  and  sub- 
divisions remind  us  of  the  scholastic  Richard  of  St.  Victor,  but  Ruysbroek,  less 
methodical  by  nature,  and  less  disciplined,  more  frequently  loses  sight  of  his 
own  distinctions.  The  subject  itself,  indeed,  where  it  possesses  the  writer,  re- 
pudiates every  artificial  treatment.  While  lie  specifies  with  minuttmess  the 
stages  of  the  mystical  ascent,  Ruy.sbroek  does  not  contend  that  the  experience 
of  every  adept  in  the  contemplative  life  must  follow  the  precise  order  he  lays 
down.  [Gcistl.  Hochzcit,  ii.  §  30,  p.  71.)  He  loves  to  ally  the  distinctions 
he  enumerates  in  the  world  of  nature,  in  the  operations  of  grace,  in  the 
heavenly  state,  and  in  the  Divine  Being,  by  a  relationship  of  correspondence. 
Thus  the  seven  planets  and  the  seven  gifts  of  the  Holy  Spirit  answer  to  each 
other.  The  Empyrean  in  the  external  world  corresponds  to  Pure  Being  in  the 
divine  nature,  to  the  Spark  of  the  soul  in  man,  and  to  the  Contemplative  stage 
of  his  spiritual  experience.  This  scheme  of  analogies,  incidental  in  Ruysbroek 
and  the  earlier  mystics,  makes  up  almost  the  whole  system  of  mystics  like 
Behmen  and  Swedenborg.  His  elaborate  comparison  of  the  operations  of 
grace  to  a  fountain  with  three  streams  (one  of  which  refreshes  the  memory, 
another  clarifies  the  understanding,  while  a  third  invigorates  the  will),  resembles 
strikingly  the  fanciful  method  of  Madame  Guyon  in  her  Torreuls,  and  of 
St.  Theresa  in  her  Degrees  of  Prayer.  (Geisfl.  Hochzeit,  xvii.  §  36,  p.  80.)  The 
mysticism  of  Ruysbroek  is  less  sensuous  than  that  of  the  poetical  Suso.  Beyond 
question  the  higher  elevation  of  the  contemplative  life  must  have  been  a  welcome 
refuge  to  many  devout  minds  wearied  with  vain  ritual,  penance,  and  routine 
As  acknowledged  contemplatists,  tiiey  could  escape  without  scandal  from  con- 
tact with  the  grosser  machinery  of  their  religion.  Accordingly,  to  claim  supe- 
riority to  means  and  modes  was  by  no  means  always  the  arrogant  pretension  it 
may  seem  to  us.  Tauler's  'state  above  grace'  was  the  ark  of  an  unconscious 
Protestantism.  Where  the  means  were  made  the  end,  wisdom  forsook  them, 
and  rejoiced  to  find  that  the  name  of  mystic  could  shelter  spirituality  from  the 
dangers  of  the  suspected  heretic.  Ruysbroek,  however,  felt  the  want  of  such 
a  protection  for  freer  thought,  much  less  than  did  Tauler  and  some  of  his  more 
active  followers. 


Z  3 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Unde  planctus  et  lamentum  ? 

Quid  mentem  non  erigis  ? 
Quid  revolvis  moriumentum  ? 

Tecum  est  quern  diligis  ; 
Jesum  quasris,  et  inventum 

Habes,  nee  intelligis. 

Undegemis,  undeploras? 

Verum  habes  gaudium. 
In  te  latet  quod  ignoras 

Doloris  solatium. 
Intus  habes,  quasris  foras 

Languoris  remedium.' 

Hymn  of  the  Fifteenth  Ceniuky. 


o 


Vivo  sin  vivir  mi, 

Y  tan  alta  vida  espero 

Que  muero  porque  no  muero.' 

St.  Theresa. 

N  the    next    evening    Atherton   resumed    his  reading  as 
follows : — 


Chronicle  of  Adolph  Arnsteifi,  continued. 

1354.  March.  St.  Brigittds  Day. — A  fortnight  ago  this 
day,  there  came  to  me,  to  buy  as  goodly  a  battle-axe  as  could 
be  made,  young  Sir  Ulric — the  same  who,  at  the  tourney  the 


'  Why  smite  thy  breast  and  lament  ? 
why  not  lift  up  thy  soul  ?  why  meditate 
for  ever  on  the  sign  ?  He  tliou  lovest 
is  within  thee.  Thou  seekest  Jesus — 
thou  hast  him  ;  he  is  found,  and  thou 
perceivest  it  not.  Wliy  these  groans, 
this  weeping?  The  true  joy  is  thine  ; 
hidden  within  thee,  though  thou  know- 


est  it  not,  lies  the  solace  of  thine  an- 
guish ;  thou  hast  within,  thou  seekest 
without,  the  cure  for  thy  languishing 
soul. 

-  I  live,  but  with  no  life  of  mine,  and 
long  towards  a  life  so  high — I  die  be- 
cause I  do  not  die 


c.  8.]  Suso  saved  from  Droivntng.  341 

other  day,  graced  his  new-won  spurs  by  such  gallant  feats  of 
arms.  We  fell  into  talk  about  the  great  floods  which  have 
everywhere  wrought  of  late  such  loss  of  life,  and  cattle,  and 
husbandry.  He  said  he  had  but  the  day  before  saved  the  life 
of  a  monk  who,  with  his  companion,  had  been  carried  beyond 
his  depth  by  the  force  of  the  water,  as  they  were  wading  across 
the  fields. 

'  The  one  most  in  danger,'  said  Ulric, '  had  a  big  book  in  his 
bosom.  As  he  flounders  about,  out  tumbles  the  book  ;  he  lets 
go  his  staff,  and  makes  after  it ;  and  souse  he  goes,  over  head 
and  ears  in  a  twinkling.  The  other  stands  stock  still,  and 
bawls  out  to  me  for  help.  I,  just  sworn  to  succour  the  dis- 
tressed and  be  true  to  the  Church,  spur  Roland,  plunge  in,  and 
lift  out  the  draggled,  streaming  father  by  the  hood,  half  throt- 
tled and  half  drowned,  but  clutching  the  book  in  his  frozen 
fingers  as  though  it  were  a  standard  or  a  fair  lady's  token.  I 
lay  him  before  me  across  my  horse  ;  his  fellow  catches  hold  of 
my  stirrup,  and  we  land  on  the  rising  ground.  When  my 
monk  had  somewhat  come  to  himself,  he  pours  as  many  bless- 
ings on  my  head  as  there  were  drops  running  from  his  habit ; 
not,  he  said,  for  saving  his  poor  life  merely,  but  that  the  book 
was  safe.  He  had  just  finished  writing  it — there  was  not 
another  copy  in  the  world — the  devil  had  an  especial  spite 
against  it — no  doubt  the  fiend  had  raised  the  waters  to  destroy 
the  seed  which  fed  men's  souls  as  well  as  the  grain  which 
nourished  their  bodies ;  but  the  faithful  God  had  sent  me,  Hke 
his  angel,  just  in  time  for  rescue.  I  saw  them  in  safety,  and 
he  promised  to  remember  me  in  his  orisons.  His  name,  I 
think  he  said,  was  Seusse  or  Suso.'^ 


•''  The   Life  of  Suso,    published   in  own   lips.     He  sprang  from   a  good 

Diepenbrock's  edition  of  iiis  works,  was  family, — his  name,  originally  Heinrich 

writtcnby  his  spiritual  daughter,  Elsbet  vom    Berg.      The   name  of    Suso   he 

Staglin,  according  to  the  account  she  adopted   from   his   mother,  a  woman 

received  at  various  intervals  from  his  remarkable    for    her  devotion.      The 


34'2  German  Mysticism  in  the  14.^^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

So  Suso  is  in  Strasburg,  thought  I, — the  man  I  have  long 
wished  to  see.  I  lost  no  time  in  inquiring  after  him  at  the 
Dominican  convent.  There  I  found,  with  no  small  satisfaction, 
that  he  was  none  the  worse  for  his  mishap ;  saw  him  several 
times,  and  persuaded  him,  at  last,  to  honour  for  a  few  days  my 
unworthy  roof.  He  has  been  with  us  for  a  week,  but  must 
pursue  his  journey  to-morrow.  On  my  part,  I  could  tell  him 
news  about  Ruysbroek,  and  Tauler,  and  some  of  his  old  friends 
at  Cologne.  On  his,  he  has  won  the  love  of  all  the  household 
by  his  gentle,  affectionate  nature,  blessed  us  by  his  prayers,  and 
edified  every  heart  by  his  godly  conversation.  My  good  wife 
would  love  him,  if  for  nothing  else,  because  he  so  loves  the 
little  ones.  They  love  him  because  he  always  goes  with  them 
to  feed  the  old  falcon,  and  to  throw  out  crumbs  for  the  spar- 
rows, because  he  joins  them  in  petting  Argus,  and  talks  so 
sweetly  about  the  Virgin  and  Child,  and  the  lilies  and  violets 
and  roses,  and  the  angels  with  gold-bright  wings  that  live  in 
heaven.  Those  three  tall  fellows,  my  boys,  fonder  of  sword- 
play,  wrestling,  and  camping  the  bar,  than  of  churchmen  or 
church-going,  will  listen  to  him  by  the  hour,  while  lie  tells  of 
his  visions,  his  journeys,  his  dangers,  and  his  deliverances. 
Rulman  Merswin  also  came  over  and  spent  two  evenings  with 
us.  He  talked  much  with  Suso  about  Master  Eckart.  Suso 
was  full  of  reminiscences  and  anecdotes  about  him.  In  his 
youthful  days  he  had  been  his  disciple  at  Cologne. 

'  At  one  time,'  said  Suso,  '  I  was  for  ten  years  in  the  deepest 
spiritual  gloom.  I  could  not  realize  the  mysteries  of  the  faith, 
A  decree  seemed  to  have  gone  forth  against  me,  and  I  thought 
I  was  lost.  My  cries,  my  tears,  my  penance, — all  were  vain. 
I  bethought  me  at  last  of  consulting  my  old  teacher,  left  my 

secret  name  of  Amandus,  concealed  self  and  his  book  from  the  floods,  by- 
till  after  his  deatli,  was  supposed  to  the  timely  intervention  of  a  kniglit 
have  been  conferred  by  the  Everlasting  passing  tliat  way,  is  related  in  the 
Wisdom  himself  on  his  beloved  servant.  twent,v-ninth  chapter  of  theZj/^,  p.  68. 
The  incident  of  the  rescue  of  him- 


0.  8.]  Ans ferities.  343 

cell,  sailed  down  the  Rhine,  and  at  Cologne  the  Lord  gave  to 
the  words  of  the  master  such  power  that  the  prison-doors  were 
opened,  and  I  stepped  out  into  the  sunshine  once  more. 
Neither  did  his  counsel  cease  with  life.  I  saw  him  in  a  vision, 
not  long  after  his  death.  He  told  me  that  his  place  was  in  the 
ineffable  glory,  and  that  his  soul  was  divinely  transformed  in 
God.  I  asked  him,  likewise,  several  questions  about  heavenly 
things,  which  he  graciously  answered,  strengthening  me  not  a 
httle  in  the  arduous  course  of  the  inner  life  of  self-annihilation. 
I  have  marvelled  often  that  any,  having  tasted  of  the  noble 
wine  of  his  doctrine,  should  desire  any  of  my  poor  vintage.'  * 

In  talking  with  the  brethren  at  the  convent,  while  Suso  was 
their  guest,  I  heard  many  things  related  concerning  him  alto- 
gether new  to  me.  I  was  aware  that  he  had  been  greatly 
sought  after  as  a  preacher  in  German  throughout  the  Rhineland, 
and  stood  high  in  the  esteem  of  holy  men  as  a  wise  and  tender- 
hearted guide  of  souls.  That  he  was  an  especial  friend  of  the 
Friends  of  God  wherever  he  found  them,  I  knew.  When  at 
Cologne  I  heard  Tauler  praise  a  book  of  his  which  he  had  in 
his  possession,  called  the  Horologe  of  Wisdom.^  Something 
of  the  fame  of  his  austerities,  conflicts,  and  revelations,  had 
come  to  my  ears,  but  the  half  had  not  been  told  me. 

It  seems  that  his  life,  from  his  eighteenth  to  his  fortieth  year, 
was  one  long  self-torture.  The  Everlasting  Wisdom  (who  is  a 
tree  of  Hie  to  them  that  lay  hold  upon  her,  more  precious  than 
rubies,  and  with  whom  are  durable  riches  and  righteousness) 
manifested  herself  to  him.     This  was  his  call  to  the  spiritual 

*  Hcmnch^wso's  Lebe II  unci  Schr if-  said   that,    on   one   occasion,   as  'the 

ten,  von    M.   Diepenbrock  (1837),  pp.  servant  was  preaching  at  Cologne,  one 

15,'  51,  86.      Diepenbrock's    book  is  of  his  auditors  beheld  his  face  lumi- 

an    edition    ot    the     biography     by  nous  with  a  supernatural  effulgence." 

StagUn,  and  of  i\\&  Book  0/  the  Evci-  It   is  known  that  Tauler  possessed  a 

lastin'^  Wisdom,   &c.,  from  the  oldest  co^y  o^  ihe.  Horologi urn  Siipicntiee. 
manuscripts  and  editions,  and  rendered         See  also  Schmidt's    'lauler,   p.  169. 

into  modern  German.  Comp.    Leben,    cap.  xxxi.  p.  72,  and 

^  Leboi,  cap.  48,— where   it  is  also  cap.  xlix. 


344         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.         [bvt. 

life.  He  seemed  to  behold  her — a  maiden,  bright  as  the 
sun, — her  crown,  eternity  ; — her  raiment,  blessedness  ; — her 
words,  sweetness ;  unknown,  and  yet  well  known ;  near,  and  yet 
afar  off;  smiUng  on  him,  and  saying,  '  My  son,  give  me  thine 
heart !'  From  that  time  forth  he  dedicated  his  life  to  her 
service.  He  called  himself  the  servant  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom, 
armed  his  soul  as  her  knight,  wooed  her  as  his  heart's  queen, 
bore  without  a  murmur  the  lover's  pangs  of  coyness,  doubt, 
and  distance,  with  all  the  hidden  martyrdom  of  spiritual 
passion.* 

But  the  rose  of  his  love,  as  he  is  wont  to  term  it,  had  fearful 
thorns.  I  heard  with  a  shudder  of  what  he  underwent  that  he 
might  crush  to  death  his  naturally  active,  buoyant,  impulsive 
temperament.  Day  and  night  he  wore  a  close-fitting  shirt  in 
which  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  sharp  nails,  the  points  turned 
inward  on  the  flesh.  In  this  he  lay  writhing,  like  a  mangled 
worm ;  and  lest  in  his  sleep  he  should  find  some  easier  posture, 
or  relieve  with  his  hands  in  any  way  the  smart  and  sting  that, 
like  a  nest  of  vipers,  gnawed  him  everywhere,  he  had  leather 
gloves  made,  covered  with  sharp  blades,  so  that  every  touch 
might  make  a  Avound.  Time  after  time  were  the  old  scars 
opened  into  new  gashes.  His  body  appeared  like  that  of  one 
who  has  escaped,  half  dead,  from  the  furious  clutches  of  a  bear. 
This  lasted  sixteen  years,  till  a  vision  bade  him  cease. 

Never  satisfied  with  suffering,  he  devised  a  new  kind  of 
discipline.  He  fashioned  a  wooden  cross,  with  thirty  nails  whose 
points  stood  out  beyond  the  wood,  and  this  he  wore  between 
his  shoulders  underneath  his  garments,  till  his  back  was  one 
loathly  sore.  To  the  thirty  nails  he  added  afterwards  seven 
more,  in  honour  of  the  sorrows  of  the  Mother  of  God.  When 
he  would  administer  the  discipline,  he  struck  a  blow  on  this 
cro3s  with  his  fist,  driving  the  points  into  his  wounded  flesh, 

fi  Leben,  cap.  iv. 


c.  8.]  The  Horologe  of  Wisdom.  345 

He  made  himself,  moreover,  a  scourge,  one  of  the  iron  tags  of 
wliich  was  bent  like  a  fisher's  hook,  and  with  this  he  lashed  him- 
self till  it  broke  in  his  hand.  For  many  years  he  lay  at  nights  in 
a  miserable  hole  he  called  his  cell,  with  an  old  door  for  his  bed, 
and  in  the  depth  of  winter  thought  it  sin  to  approach  the  stove 
for  warmth.  His  convent  lay  on  a  little  island  where  the  Rhine 
flows  out  of  the  Lake  of  Constance.  He  could  see  the  sparkling 
water  on  every  side.  His  wounds  filled  him  with  feverish 
thirst ;  yet  he  would  often  pass  the  whole  day  without  suffering 
a  drop  to  moisten  his  lips.  His  recompence  was  the  vision  in 
which,  at  one  time,  the  Holy  Child  brought  him  a  vessel  of 
spring-water  ;  and,  at  another.  Our  Blessed  Lady  gave  him  to 
drink  from  her  own  heart.  Such,  they  tell  me,  was  his  life  till 
his  fortieth  year,  when  it  was  signified  to  him  that  he  should 
remit  these  terrible  exercises.  He  is  now,  I  believe,  little  more 
than  fifty  years  old — the  mere  wreck  of  a  man  to  look  at ;  but 
with  such  life  and  energy  of  spirit  that,  now  he  hath  begun  to 
live  more  like  other  people,  he  may  have  a  good  thirty  years 
before  him  still.' 

I  questioned  him  about  his  book  called  the  Horologe  of  Wis- 
dom, or  Book  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  for  it  hath  gone  abroad 
under  both  names.  He  said  it  was  finished  in  the  year  1340, 
since  which  time  he  hath  written  sundry  other  pieces.  He 
declared  to  me  that  he  wrote  that  treatise  only  in  his  most 
favoured  moments,  himself  ignorant  and  passive,  but  under  the 
immediate  impulse  and  illumination  of  the  Divine  Wisdom. 
He  afterwards  carefully  examined  all  he  had  written,  to  be  sure 
that  there  was  nothing  in  his  pages  other  than  the  holy  Fathers 
had  taught,  and  the  Church  received.'     Methought,  if  he  was 

'  Leben,  cap.  xvii.-xx.    Suso  died  in  the    title    ^orologhn?t    Sapient ic^,    to 

1385  at  Ulm  ;  lie  was  born   about  the  Hugo  von  Vaucemain,  Master  of  the 

commencement  of  the  century.  Order,  for  his  approval.     The  date  of 

■^  Suso  sent   a  Latin  version  of  the  the  work   is   fixed  between   1333  and 

book  of  the  Everlasting  Wisdom,  under  1341.     The  prologue  contains  the  ac- 


34^         German  Mysticism  in  the  14.'^  Century.        [b.  vi. 

sure  of  his  inspiration,  he  might  have  spared  himself  this  pain, 
unless  the  Holy  Spirit  could  in  some  sort  gainsay  his  own  words. 

He  is  strongly  moved  by  music, — but  what  must  have  been 
his  rapture  to  hear  the  hymns  of  the  heavenly  host !  He  has 
seen  himself  surrounded  by  the  choir  of  seraphim  and  cherubim. 
He  has  heard  a  voice  of  thrilling  sweetness  lead  the  response, 
'  Arise  and  shine,  Jerusalem,'  and  has  wept  in  his  cell  with  joy 
to  hear  from  angels'  lips,  at  early  dawn,  the  soaring  words, 
'  Mary,  the  morning  star,  is  risen  to-day.'  Many  a  time  has 
he  seen  a  heavenly  company  sent  down  to  comfort  him.  They 
have  taken  him  by  the  hand,  and  he  has  joined  in  spirit  in  their 
dance, — that  celestial  dance,  which  is  a  blissful  undulation  to 
and  fro  in  the  depths  of  the  divine  glory.  One  day,  when  thus 
surrounded  in  vision,  he  asked  a  shining  prince  of  heaven  to 
show  him  the  mode  in  which  God  had  His  secret  dwelling  in 
his  soul.  Then  answered  the  angel,  •  Take  a  gladsome  look 
into  thine  inmost,  and  see  how  God  in  thy  loving  soul  playeth 
His  play  of  love.'  Straightway  (said  Suso  to  me)  I  looked, 
and  behold  the  body  about  my  heart  was  clear  as  crystal,  and 
I  saw  the  Eternal  Wisdom  calmly  sitting  in  my  heart  in  lovely 
wise :  and,  close  by  that  form  of  beauty,  my  soul,  leaning  on 
God,  embraced  by  His  arm,  pressed  to  His  heart,  full  of 
heavenly  longing,  transported,  intoxicated  with  love !" 

We  were  talking  one  evening  of  May-day  eve,  and  asking 
Suso  wherein  their  custom  of  celebrating  that  festival  dittered 
from  our  own.  He  said  that  in  Suabia  the  youths  went  out, 
much  in  our  fashion,  singing  songs  before  the  houses  of  the 
maidens  they  loved,  and  craving  from  them  garlands  in  honour 
of  the  May.     He  told  us  how  he,  in  like  manner,  besought  Our 

count    of     the    '  inspiyaiio    superna  in  the  fourteenth  century  almost  what 

under  which  the  work  was  written. —  the   Imitatio   Christi  became  in  the 

(Diepenb.    Vorbericht,  p.  6.)      It  was  fifteentli. — Ibid.  p.  15. 
translated  ere  long  into  French,  Dutch,         9  Leben,  cap;  vi. 
"Uid  English,  and  appears  to  have  been 


c.  8.]  The  Soul's  May.  347 

Lady  with  prayers  and  tears  that  he  might  have  a  garland  from 
her  Son,  the  Eternal  Wisdom.  It  was  his  wont,  he  said,  to  set 
up  a  spiritual  May-pole — the  holy  cross,  that  May-bough  of  the 
soul,  blossoming  with  grace  and  beauty.  '  Before  this,'  he  con- 
tinued, *  I  performed  six  venias,"  and  sung  the  hymn,  '  Hail, 
holy  cross  !'  thereafter  praising  God  somewhat  thus  : — 

'  Hail !  heavenly  May  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom,  wliose  fruit  is 
everlasting  joy.  First,  to  honour  thee,  I  bring  thee,  to-day,  for 
every  red  rose  a  heart's  love ;  then,  for  every  little  violet  a  lowly 
inclination;  next,  for  every  tender  lily,  a  pure  embrace;  for 
every  bright  flower  ever  born  or  to  be  born  of  May,  on  heath  or 
grassplot,  wood  or  field,  tree  or  meadow,  my  heart  doth  bring 
thee  a  spiritual  kiss ;  for  every  happy  song  of  birds  that  ever 
rang  in  the  kindly  May,  my  soul  would  give  thee  praises  inex- 
haustible ;  for  every  grace  that  ever  graced  the  May,  my  heart 
would  raise  thee  a  spiritual  song,  and  pray  thee,  O  thou  blest 
soul's  May  !  to  help  me  so  to  glorify  thee  in  my  little  time  below, 
that  I  may  taste  thy  living  fruit  for  evermore  above  !'" 

The  beginning  of  a  new  stage  of  trial  was  made  known  to 
him  by  the  appearance,  in  a  vision,  of  an  angel,  bringing  him 
the  attire  and  the  shoes  of  a  knight.  With  these  he  was  to  gird 
himself  for  new  and  yet  more  terrible  conflicts.  Concerning  his 
own  austerities  he  never  speaks,  nor  does  he  show  to  any  one 
the  letters  of  the  name  of  Jesus,  which  he  is  said  to  have  cut 
with  a  style  upon  his  bosom.  But  of  the  suff"erings  which  came 
upon  him  from  without,  he  talks  freely.  At  one  time,  when  in 
Flanders,  he  was  brought  before  tlie  chapter  on  a  charge  of 
heresy  ;  but  his  enemies  gained  not  their  wicked  end.^^  He  was 
in  greatest  danger  of  his  life  shortly  before  the  coming  of  the 
plague,  when  the  fearful  rumour  was  abroad  about  the  poisoning 
of  the  wells.     He  himself  told  me  the  story,  as  follows  : — 

'"  Reverences  or  prostrations.  '-  Leben,  cap.  xxii.  p    i; ;  and  xxv. 

11  Leben,  ca-jo.  x.  and  xiv. 


34^         German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [d.  vi. 

'  1  was  once  despatched  on  a  journey  in  the  service  of  the 
convent,  and  they  gave  me  as  my  companion  a  half-witted  lay- 
brother.  We  had  not  been  many  days  on  the  road,  when,  one 
morning,  having  early  left  our  quarters  for  the  night,  we 
arrived,  after  a  long,  hungry  walk  through  the  rain,  at  a  village 
on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine.  It  happened  to  be  the  fair-time. 
The  street  was  full  of  booths  and  stalls,  horses  and  cattle, 
country-folk,  players,  pedlers,  and  idle  roystering  soldiers.  My 
fellow-traveller,  Peter,  catches  sight  of  a  sign,  and  turns  in 
straightway  to  warm  himself  at  the  fire,  telling  me  I  can  go  on, 
do  what  I  have  to  do,  and  I  shall  find  him  there.  As  I  learnt 
after,  he  sits  himself  down  to  table  with  a  ruffianly  set  of  drovers 
and  traders  that  had  come  to  the  fair,  who  first  of  all  make  him 
half-drunk,  and  then  seize  him,  and  swear  he  has  stolen  a  cheese. 
At  this  moment  there  come  in  four  or  five  troopers,  hardened 
fellows,  ripe  for  any  outrage,  who  fall  on  him  also,  crying,  'The 
scroundrel  monk  is  a  poisoner.'  The  clamour  soon  gathers  a 
crowd. 

'  When  Peter  sees  matters  at  this  pass,  he  piteously  cries  out 
to  them  to  loose  him,  and  stand  still  and  listen  :  he  will  confess 
everything.  With  that  they  let  go  their  hold,  and  he,  standing 
trembling  in  the  midst  of  them,  begins  :  '  Look  at  me,  sirs, — 
you  see  I  am  a  fool ;  they  call  me  silly,  and  nobody  cares  for 
what  I  say  :  but  my  companion,  he  is  a  wise  man,  so  our  Order 
has  given  him  the  poison-bag,  and  he  is  to  poison  all  the  springs 
between  here  and  Alsace.  He  is  gone  now  to  throw  some  into 
the  spring  here,  to  kill  every  one  that  is  come  to  the  fair.  That 
is  why  I  stayed  here,  and  would  not  go  with  him.  You  may  be 
sure  that  what  I  say  is  true,  for  you  will  see  him  when  he  comes 
with  a  great  wallet  full  of  bags  of  poison  and  gold  pieces,  which 
he  and  the  Order  have  received  from  the  Jews  for  this  murderous 
business.' 

*  At  these  words  they  all  shouted,  '  After  the  murderer  !  Stop 


8.]  Suso  pursued  as  a  Poisoner.  349 


him !  Stop  him  !'  One  seized  a  spear,  another  an  axe,  others 
the  first  tool  or  weapon  they  could  lay  hands  on,  and  all  hurried 
furiously  from  house  to  house,  and  street  to  street,  breaking 
open  doors,  ransacking  closets,  stabbing  the  beds,  and  thrusting 
in  the  straw  with  their  swords,  till  the  whole  fair  was  in  an 
uproar.  Some  friends  of  mine,  who  heard  my  name  mentioned, 
assured  them  of  my  innocence  of  such  an  abominable  crime,  but 
to  no  purpose.  At  last,  when  they  could  nowhere  find  me, 
they  carried  Peter  oft"  to  the  bailitit',  who  shut  him  up  in  the 
prison. 

'  When  I  came  back  to  the  inn,  knowing  nothing  of  all  this, 
the  host  told  me  what  had  befallen  Peter,  and  how  this  evil 
rumour  had  stirred  up  the  whole  fair  against  me.  I  hastened 
off  to  the  bailiff  to  beg  Peter's  release.  He  refused.  I  spent 
nearly  the  whole  day  in  trying  to  prevail  with  him,  and  in 
going  about  in  vain  to  get  bail.  At  last,  about  vesper  time, 
with  a  heavy  sum  of  gulden  I  opened  the  heart  of  the  bailiff"and 
the  doors  of  the  jail. 

'  Then  my  greatest  troubles  began.  As  I  passed  through  the 
village,  hoping  to  escape  unknown,  I  was  recognised  by  some  of 
the  mob,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  swarming  about  me. 
'  Down  with  the  poisoner  !'  they  cried.  *  His  gold  shall  not 
serve  him  with  us  as  it  did  with  the  bailiff".'  I  ran  a  little  way, 
but  they  closed  me  in  again,  some  saying,  '  Drown  him  in  the 
Rhine ;'  others  answering,  '  No,  burn  him  !  he'll  poison  the 
whole  river  if  you  throw  him  in.'  Then  I  saw  (methinks  I  see 
him  now)  a  gigantic  peasant  in  a  russet  jerkin,  forcing  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  with  a  pike  in  his  hand.  Seizing  me  by  the 
throat  with  one  hand,  and  flourishing  the  pike  in  the  other,  he 
shouted,  '  Hear  me,  all  of  you.  Let  me  spit  him  with  my  long 
pike,  like  a  poisonous  toad,  and  then  plant  it  in  this  stout 
hedge  here,  and  let  the  caitiff"  howl  and  twist  in  the  air  till  his 
soul  goes  home  to  the  devil.     Then  every  one  that  goes  by  will 


3  5  O         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'*^  Centurv.        [b.  vi. 

see  his  withered  carcass,  rotting  and  wasting,  and  sink  him 
deeper  down  in  hell  with  curses.  Come  on, — it  serves  him 
right.' 

'  My  brain  swam  round.  I  closed  my  eyes.  I  expected  the 
next  instant  to  feel  the  iron.  By  some  merciful  interposition, 
the  wretch  was  not  suffered  to  execute  his  purpose.  I  thought 
I  saw  some  of  the  better  sort  looking  on  with  horror-stricken 
faces,  but  they  dared  not  interfere.  The  women  shrieked  and 
wrung  their  hands.  I  made  my  way  from  one  to  another  of 
those  who  seemed  least  pitiless,  beseeching  them  to  save  me. 
Heaven  must  have  heard  my  cries,  though  man  did  not.  They 
stood  round  watching  me,  disputing  with  horrid  oaths  among 
themselves  what  they  should  do.  At  length — as  I  had  sunk  on 
my  knees  under  the  hedge,  praying  for  deliverance — I  saw  a 
priest,  more  like  an  angel  than  a  man,  mightily  thrusting  them 
from  side  to  side,  and  when  he  reached  me,  laying  his  hand  on 
my  arm,  he  looked  round  on  the  ring  of  savage  faces,  and 
threatened  them  with  the  hottest  curses  of  the  Church  if  they 
harmed  a  hair  upon  the  head  of  her  servant ;  outvoiced  their 
angry  cries  with  loud  rebukes  of  their  cowardice,  cruelty,  and 
sacrilege,  and  led  me  out  safely  through  them  all.  He  brought 
me  to  his  house,  made  fast  the  doors,  refreshed  and  sheltered 
me  for  the  night,  and  by  the  earliest  dawn  I  was  away  and  safe 
upon  my  journey,  while  that  abode  of  the  wicked  was  sunk  in 
its  drunken  sleep.  I  keep  the  anniversary  of  that  dreadful  day, 
and  never  shall  I  cease  to  praise  the  goodness  which  answered 
my  prayer  in  the  hour  of  need,  and  delivered  me  as  a  bird  from 
the  snare  of  the  fowler.^* 

'  On  one  other  occasion  only,'  continued  Suso,  '  did  I  taste  so 
nearly  the  bitterness  of  death.' 

1'  This  incident  is  related  at  length  The  account  given  in  the  text  follows 

in  the  twenty-seventh  chapter  of  the  closely  in  all  essential  particulars  the 

Life  ;  and  the  adventure  with  the  rob-  narrative  in  the  biography. 
ber,  which  follows,  in  the  succeeding. 


8.]  Snso  and  the  Robber.  351 


We  begged  him  to  tell  us  the  adventure,  and  so  he  did,  some- 
what thus — 

*  I  was  once  on  my  way  home  from  Flanders,  travelling  up 
the  Rhine.  A  great  feebleness  and  sickness  had  been  upon  me 
for  some  days,  so  that  I  could  not  walk  fast,  and  my  companion, 
young  and  active,  had  gone  on  about  two  miles  ahead.  I  entered 
an  old  forest  whose  trees  overhung  the  steep  river  bank.  It  was 
evening,  and  it  seemed  to  grow  dark  in  a  moment  as  I  entered 
the  chilling  shadow  of  a  wood,  in  which  many  a  defenceless 
passenger  had  been  robbed  and  slain.  I  had  gone  on  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  growing  gloom,  the  wind  among  the  pines 
sounding  like  a  hungry  sea.  The  fall  of  my  own  footsteps 
seemed  like  the  tread  of  one  coming  after  me.  I  stood  still  and 
hearkened.  It  was  no  one ;  when  suddenly  I  saw,  not  far  off 
among  the  trees,  two  persons,  a  man  and  a  woman,  talking 
together  and  watching  me.  I  trembled  in  every  limb,  but  I 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  passed  on.  Soon  I  heard  quick 
footsteps  behind  me.  I  turned — it  was  the  woman.  She  was 
young  and  fair  to  look  on.  She  asked  my  name,  and  when  she 
learnt  it,  said  she  knew  and  reverenced  me  greatly,  told  me 
how  that  robber  with  whom  I  saw  her  had  forced  her  to 
become  his  wife,  and  prayed  me  there  and  then  to  hear  her 
confession. 

'  When  I  had  shriven  her,  think  how  my  fear  was  heightened 
to  see  her  go  back  and  talk  long  and  earnestly  with  the  robber, 
whose  brow  grew  dark,  as  he  left  her  without  a  word,  and 
advanced  gloomily  towards  where  I  stood.  It  was  a  narrow 
pathway ;  on  the  one  side  the  forest,  on  the  other  the  precipice, 
sheer  down  to  the  rapid  river.  Alas,  thought  I,  as  my  heart 
sank  within  me,  now  I  am  lost.  I  have  not  strength  to  flee  : 
no  one  will  hear  a  cry  for  help  :  he  will  slay  me,  and  hide  the 
body  in  the  wood.  All  was  still.  I  listened  in  vain  for  the 
sound  of  a  boat,  a  voice,  or  even  the  bark  of  a  dog.     I  only 


352         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'"  Century.        [b.  vi. 

heard  the  feet  of  the  outlaw  and  the  violent  beating  of  my  own 
heart.  But,  lo  !  when  he  approached  me,  he  bowed  his  knee, 
and  began  to  confess.  Blessed  Mary,  what  a  black  catalogue  ! 
While  he  spake  I  heard,  motionless,  every  word  of  the  horrible 
recital,  and  yet  I  was  all  the  time  listening  for  rescue,  watching 
his  face,  and  minutely  noting  every  little  thing  about  his  person. 
I  remember  the  very  graining  of  the  wood  of  his  lance  which  he 
laid  aside  on  the  grass  when  he  knelt  to  me — the  long  knife  in 
his  belt — his  frayed  black  doublet — his  rough  red  hair,  growing 
close  down  to  his  shaggy  eyebrows— two  great  teeth  that  stood 
out  like  tusks — and  his  hands  clasped,  covered  with  warts,  and 
just  the  colour  of  the  roots  of  the  tree  by  which  I  stood.  Even 
during  those  fearful  moments,  I  can  call  to  mind  distinctly  how 
I  marked  a  little  shining  insect  that  was  struggling  among  the 
blades  of  grass,  climbing  over  a  knot  of  wood,  and  that  got 
upon  a  fir-cone  and  fell  off  upon  its  back. 

'After  revealing  to  me  crimes  that  made  my  blood  run  cold, 
he  went  on  to  say,  *  I  was  once  in  this  forest,  just  about  this 
hour  of  the  day,  on  the  look-out  for  booty  as  I  was  this  evening, 
when  I  met  a  priest,  to  whom  I  confessed  myself  He  was 
standing  just  where  you  are  now,  and  when  my  shrift  was 
ended,  I  drew  out  this  knife,  stabbed  him  to  the  heart,  and 
rolled  his  body  down  there  into  the  Rhine.'  When  I  heard 
this,  the  cold  sweat  burst  out  upon  my  face  ;  I  staggered  back 
giddy,  almost  senseless,  against  the  tree.  Seeing  this,  the 
woman  ran  up,  and  caught  me  in  her  arms,  saying,  '  Good  sir, 
fear  nothing,  he  will  not  kill  you.'  Whereat  the  murderer  said, 
'  I  have  heard  much  good  of  you,  and  that  shall  save  your  life 
to-day.  Pray  for  me,  good  father,  that,  through  you,  a  mise- 
rable sinner  may  find  mercy  in  his  last  hour.'  At  this  I  breathed 
again,  and  promised  to  do  as  he  would  have  me.  Then  we 
walked  on  some  way  together,  till  they  parted  from  m?,  and  I 
reached  the  skirts  of  the  wood,  where  sat  my  companion  waiting. 


c.  8.]  TJie  HigJier  Experiences.  353 

I  could  just  stagger  up  to  him,  and  then  fell  down  at  his  side, 
shivering  like  a  man  with  the  ague.  After  some  time  I  arose, 
and  we  went  on  our  way.  But  I  failed  not,  with  strong  inward 
groaning,  to  plead  with  the  Lord  for  the  poor  outlaw,  that  he 
might  find  grace  and  escape  damnation..  And,  in  sooth,  I  had 
so  strong  an  assurance  vouchsafed  to  me  of  God,  that  I  could 
not  doubt  of  his  final  salvation.' 

With  stories  such  as  these  of  what  befel  himself,  and  many 
others,  whom  he  knew  in  Suabia  and  the  Oberland,  or  met  with 
on  his  journeys,  the  holy  man  whiled  away  our  windy  March 
nights  by  the  ingle.  Very  edifying  it  was  to  hear  him  and 
Rulman  Merswin  talk  together  about  the  higher  experiences  of 
the  inward  life. 

Concerning  the  stages  thereof,  Suso  said  that  the  first  con 
sisted  in  turning  away  from  the  world  and  the  lusts  of  the  flesh 
to  God  :  the  second,  in  patient  endurance  of  all  that  is  contrary 
to  flesh  and  blood,  whether  inflicted  of  God  or  man  ;  the  third, 
in  imitating  the  sufterings  of  Christ,  and  forming  ourselves  after 
his  sweet  doctrine,  gracious  walk,  and  pure  life.  After  this,  the 
soul  must  withdraw  itself  into  a  profound  stillness,  as  if  the 
man  were  dead,  willing  and  purposing  nought  but  the  glory  of 
Chiist  and  our  heavenly  Father,  and  with  a  right  lowly 
demeanour  toward  friend  and  foe.  Then  the  spirit,  thus  advanced 
in  holy  exercise,  arriveth  at  freedom  from  the  outward  senses, 
before  so  importunate  ;  and  its  higher  powers  lose  themselves  in 
a  supernatural  sensibility.  Here  the  spirit  parts  with  its  natural 
properties,  presses  within  the  circle  which  represents  the  eternal 
Godhead,  and  reaches  spiritual  perfection.  It  is  made  free  by 
the  Son  in  the  Son. 

'This  I  call,' he  said,  'the  transit  of  the  soul, — it  passes 
beyond  time  and  space,  and  is,  with  an  amorous  inward  in- 
luition,  dissolved  in  God.  This  entrance  of  the  soul  banishes  all 
forms,  images,  and  multiplicity  ;  it  is  ignorant  of  itself  and  of 

VOL.    I.  A  A 


354  German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.        [n- vi. 

all  things ;  it  hovers,  reduced  to  its  essence,  in  the  abyss  of  the 
Trinity.  At  this  elevation  there  is  no  effort,  no  struggle ;  the 
beginning  and  the  end  are  one."  Here  the  Divine  Nature 
doth,  as  it  were,  embrace,  and  inwardly  kiss  through  and 
through,  the  soul ;  that  they  may  be  for  ever  one."  He  who 
is  thus  received  into  the  Eternal  Nothing  is  in  the  Everlasting 
Now,  and  hath  neither  before  nor  after.  Rightly  hath  St. 
Dionysius  said  that  God  is  Non-being — that  is,  above  all  our 
notions  of  being.-  We  have  to  employ  images  and  similitudes, 
as  I  must  do  in  seeking  to  set  forth  these  truths,  but  know  that 
all  such  figures  are  as  far  below  the  reality  as  a  blackamoor  is 
unlike  the  sun."  In  this  absorption  whereof  I  speak,  the  soul 
is  still  a  creature,  but,  at  the  time,  hath  no  thought  whether  it 
be  creature  or  no.'  ^^ 

Suso  repeated  several  times  this  saying — 'A  man  of  true 
self-abandonment  must  be  ?/«built  from  the  creature,  zV;-built 
with  Christ,  and  over^vAi  into  the  Godhead.'^' 

We  bid  adieu  with  much  regret  to  this  excellent  man,  and  his 
visit  will  abide  long  in  our  memory.  We  drew  from  him  a  half 
promise  that  he  would  come  to  see  us  yet  again. 

May,  1354. — Oh,  most  happy  May  !  My  brother  Otto  hath 
returned,  after  trading  to  and  fro  so  long  in  foreign  parts.  He 
is  well  and  wealthy,  and  will  venture  forth  no  more.  What 
store  of  marvellous  tales  hath  he  about  the  East !     What  hairs'- 


^*  Let  en,  cap.  Ivii.  Suso  speaks  to  's  Extravagant  as  are  his  expressions 
this  effect  in  a  dialogue  with  his  spirit-  concerning  the  absorption  in  God, 
ualdaughter.  She  describes  in  another  Suso  has  still  numerous  passages  de- 
place  (p.  74)  how  she  drew  Suso  on  to  signed  to  preclude  pantheism  ;  declar- 
talk  on  these  high  themes,  and  then  ing  that  the  distinction  between  the 
wrote  down  what  follows.  Creator  and  the  creature  is  nowise  in- 

'^^  Ibid.,    cap.    xxxiv.    p.   80;    and  fringed  by  the  essential  union  he  extols. 

comp.  Buc/i.  d.  £.  Weisheit,  cao.  vii.  The  dialogue  with  the 'nameless  Wild,' 

p.  199.  already   alluded  to,  is  an   example. — 

'^   Buchlein  von    d.    E.    IVcis/ieit,  Comp.  Lehen,   cap.  Ivi.  pp.   166,   167, 

Buch.  iii.  cap.  ii. ;  and  Lebeu,  caj).  Ivi.  and  Ditch,  d.  E.  IV.,  Buch.  iii.  cap.  vi. 

p.  168,  and  p.  302.  ''-•  Lcben,    cap.   liii.  p.    148.      See 

''  Lebm,  p.  171.  Note,  p. 357. 


c.  8.]  The  Monks  of  Mount  Athos.  355 

breadth  escapes  to  relate,  and  what  precious  and  curious  things 
to  show  !  Verily,  were  I  to  write  down  here  all  he  hath  to  tell 
of,  I  might  be  writing  all  my  days. 

Only  one  thing  will  I  note,  while  I  think  of  it.  He  visited 
Mount  Athos,  now  fourteen  years  ago  :  he  described  to  me  the 
beauty  of  the  mountain,  with  its  rich  olives  and  lovely  gardens, 
and  the  whole  neighourhood  studded  with  white  convents  and 
hermitages  of  holy  men.  Some  of  the  monasteries  were  on 
rocks  so  steep  that  he  had  to  be  drawn  up  by  a  rope  in  a 
basket  to  enter  them.  The  shrines  were  wondrous  rich  with 
gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones.  But  nowhere,  he  said, 
was  he  more  martyred  by  fleas.  When  he  was  there,  a  new 
doctrine  or  practice  which  had  sprung  up  among  the  monks 
(taught,  it  is  said,  by  a  certain  Abbot  Simeon),  was  making  no 
small  stir.  There  was  to  be  a  synod  held  about  it  at  that 
time  in  Constantinople.  It  seems  that  some  of  the  monks 
(called,  if  I  mistake  not,  Hesychasts)  held  that  if  a  man  shut 
himself  up  in  a  corner  of  his  cell,  with  his  chin  upon  his  breast, 
turning  his  thoughts  inward,  gazing  towards  his  navel,  and 
centering  all  the  strength  of  his  mind  on  the  region  of  the 
heart ;  and,  not  discouraged  by  at  first  perceiving  only  dark- 
ness, held  out  at  this  strange  inlooking  for  several  days  and 
nights,  he  would  at  length  behold  a  divine  glory,  and  see  him- 
self luminous  with  the  very  light  which  was  manifested  on 
Mount  Tabor.  They  call  these  devotees  Navel-contemplators. 
A  sorry  business  !  All  the  monks,  for  lack  of  aught  else  to  do, 
were  by  the  ears  about  it, — either  trying  the  same  or 
revihng  it."° 

Methought  if  our  heretics  have  their  extravagances  and 
utmost  reaches  of  mystical  folly  here,  there  are  some  worse  still 
among  those  lazy  Greeks. 


20  Schrockh's  Kirchcngcschichtc,  vol.  .\xxiv.  pp.  431-450. 

A  A  2 


3  5  6         GcnnaiL  Mysticism  in  the  1 4    Century.        [b.  vi. 

Kate.  And  is  that  the  end  of  Arnstein's  journal  ? 

Atherton.  No  more  has  come  down  to  posterit}\ 

Mrs.  Atherton.  That  last  piece  of  news  from  Mount 
Athos  seems  quite  familiar  to  me.  I  have  just  been  reading 
Curzon's  AIo7iasteries  of  the  Let'atit,  and  thanks  to  him,  I  can 
imagine  the  scenery  of  the  mountain  and  its  neighourhood  :  the 
B3'zantine  convents,  with  their  many  httle  windows  rounded  at 
the  top,  the  whole  structure  full  of  arches  and  domes, — the 
little  farms  interspersed,  with  their  white  square  towers  and 
cottages  of  stone  at  the  foot, — the  forests  of  gigantic  plane 
trees,  with  an  underwood  of  aromatic  eve-greens, — flowers  like 
those  in  the  conservatory  everywhere  growing  wild, — waterfalls 
at  the  head  of  every  valley,  dashing  down  over  marble  rocks, — 
and  the  bells,  heard  tinkling  every  now  and  then,  to  call  the 
monks  to  prayer. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  crass  stupidity  of  those  Omphalopsychi 
shows  how  little  mere  natural  beauty  can  contribute  to  refine 
and  cultivate, — at  any  rate  when  the  pupils  are  ascetics.  The 
contemporary  mysticism  of  the  East  looks  mean  enough  beside 
the  speculation,  the  poetry,  and  the  action  of  the  German 
mystics  of  the  fourteenth  century.  It  is  but  the  motionless 
abstraction  of  the  Indian  Yogi  over  again. 

Atherton.  Yet  you  will  be  unjust  to  the  Greek  Church 
(which  has  little  enough  to  boast  of)  if  you  reckon  this  gross 
materialist  Quietism  as  the  only  specimen  of  mysticism  she 
has  to  show  during  this  period.  There  was  a  certain  Cabasilas, 
Archbishop  of  Thessalonica,"'  a  contemporary  of  our  German 
friends,  an  active  man  in  the  political  and  religious  move- 
ments of  the  time,  whose  writings  exhibit  very  fairly  the  better 

-'    See   Die  Mystik  dcs    Nikolaus  ]'ita  in  Christo,  with  an  able   intro- 

Cibarilas  vom  Leben  in   Chi'isto,  voii  duction.     The  authority  for  this  sum- 

Dr.  W.  Gass  (1849). — In  this  work,  Dr.  mary  of   the  theological  tendency   of 

Gass  publishes,  for  the  first  time,   the  Cabasilas  will  be  found,  pp.  210-224. 
Greek  te.\t   of  the  seven   books,    De 


o.  8]  Cabasilas.  357 

characteristics  of  Byzantine  mysticism.  His  earnest  practical 
devotion  rests  on  the  basis  of  the  traditional  sacerdotalism,  but 
he  stands  between  the  extremes  of  the  objective  and  the  sub- 
jective mysticism,  though  naturally  somewhat  nearer  to  the 
former.  He  presents,  however,  nothing  original  to  detain  us ; — - 
so  let  us  away  to  supper. 


Note  to  page  354. 

The  following  passage,  placed  in  the  mouth  of  the  Everlasting  Wisdom 
may  serve  as  a  further  specimen  of  the  sensuous  and  florid  cast  of  Suso  s 
language  : — 

'  I  am  the  throne  of  joy,  I  am  the  crown  of  bliss.  Mine  eyes  are  so  bright, 
my  mouth  so  tender,  my  cheeks  so  rosy-red.  and  all  my  form  so  winning  fair, 
that  were  a  man  to  abide  in  a  glowing  furnace  till  the  Last  Day,  it  would  be  a 
little  price  for  a  moment's  vision  of  my  beauty.  Rehold  !  I  am  so  beauteously 
adorned  with  a  robe  of  glory,  so  delicately  arrayed  in  all  the  bloommg  colours 
of  the  living  tlowers — red  roses,  white  lilies,  lovely  violets,  and  flowers  of  every 
name,  that  the  fair  blossoms  of  all  Mays,  and  tlie  tender  flowerets  of  all  sunny 
fields,  and  the  sweet  sprays  of  all  bright  meadows,  are  but  a.s  a  rugged  thistle 
beside  my  loveliness."     (Then  he  breaks  into  verse) : — 

•  I  play  in  the  Godhead  the  play  of  joy. 
And  gladden  the  angel  host  on  high 
With  a  sweetness  such  that  a  thousand  years 
Like  a  vanishing  hour  of  time  run  by. 

•  .  .  .  .  Happy  he  who  shall  share  the  sweet  play,  and  tread  at  my  side  the  joy- 
dance  of  heaven  for  ever  in  gladsome  security.  One  word  from  my  sweet 
mouth  surpasses  all  the  songs  of  angels,  the  sound  of  all  harps,  and  all  sweet 

playing  on  stringed  instruments Lo  !   I  am  a  good  so  absolute  that  he 

who  hath  in  time  but  one  single  drop  thereof  finds  all  the  joy  and  pleasure  of 
this  world  a  bitterness, — all  wealth  and  honour  worthless.  I'hose  dear  ones  who 
love  me  are  embraced  by  my  sweet  love,  and  swim  and  melt  in  the  sole  Unity 
with  a  love  which  knows  no  form,  no  figure,  no  spoken  words,  and  are  borne  and 
dissolved  into  the  Good  from  whence  they  sprang,'  &.c.—f.ebe/i,  cap.  vii.  p.  199. 

The  following  is  a  sample  of  Suso's  old  .Suabian  German,  from  the  extracts 
given  by  Wackernagel,  p.  885  : — 

'  Entiuiirt  demvigen  weis/ieit.  Zuo  uallende  Ion  lit  an  sunderliclier  froed.  die 
diu  sel  gewinnet  von  sunderlichen  vnd  erwirdigen  werken  mit  dien  si  hie  sesiget 
hat.  Alz  die  hohen  lerer,  die  starken  martyrer.  Vnd  die  reinen  iung  frowen. 
Aber  wesentliche  Ion.  lit  anschowlicher  ver  einung  dersele  mit  derblossen  gotheit. 
Wan  e  geruowet  si  niemer,  e  si  gefueret  wirt  iiber  alle  ir  Krefte  vnd  mugentheit. 
vnd  gewiset  wirt  in  der  personen  naturlich  wesentheit.  Vnd  in  dez  wesens 
einvaltig  blosheit.  Vnd  in  dem  gegenwurf  vindet  si  denn  genuegde  vnd  ewige 
selikeit.  Vnd  ie  abgesciieidener  lidiger  usgang.  ie  frier  uf  gang.  Vnd  ie  frier 
uf  gang,  ie  neher  in  gang,  in  die  wiiden  wuesti.  vnd  in  daz  tief  ab  griinde  der 
wise  losen  gotheit  in  die  siu  versenkct  ver  swemmet  vnd  ver  einet  werdent.  daz 
siu  nit  anderz  mugen  wellen  denn  daz  got  wil.  vnd  daz  ist  daz  selb  wesen  daz  do 
got  ist.  daz  ist  daz  siu  selig  sint.  von  genaden,  als  er  selig  ist  von  nature. 
\AKnuer  of  ;lie  Everlasting  iVisdom.  — Advcniidoiis  reward  consists  in  a  par- 


3  5  S         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4     Century.       [b.  vi 


ticular  joy  which  souls  receive  for  particular  worthy  deeds  wherein  they  have 
here  been  -  conquerors,  ^such,  for  example,  are  the  lofty  teachers,  the  stout 
martyrs,  and  the  pure  virgins.  But  «je;///a/ reward  consists  in  contemplative 
union  of  the  soul  with  the  bare  Godhead:  for  she  resteth  not  until  she  be  carried 
above  all  her  own  powers  and  possibility,  and  led  into  the  natural  essentiality 
of  the  Persons,  and  into  the  simple  absoluteness  of  the  Essence.  And  in  the 
reaction  she  finds  satisfaction  and  everlasting  bliss.  And  the  more  separate  and 
void  the  passage  out  (of  self),  the  more  free  the  passage  up  ;  and  th^reer  the 
passage  up,  the  nearer  the  passage  into  the  wild  waste  and  deep  abyss  of  the 
unsearchable  Godhead,  in  which  the  souls  are  sunk  and  dissolved  and  united,  so 
that  they  can  will  nothing  but  what  God  wills,  and  become  of  one  nature  with 
God, — that  is  to  say,  are  blessed  by  grace  as  He  is  blessed  by  nature.] 


CHAPTER  IX. 


D'l  Meistere  sprechen  von  zwein  antlitzen  der  sele.  Dazeineantlitzeist  gekart 
ill  clise  werlt.  Daz  ander  antlitze  ist  gekart  di  richte  in  got.  In  disemeantlitze 
luchtat  und  brennet  got  ovviclichen,  der  mensche  vvizzes  oder  enwizzes  nicht.' — 

HERMANN   VON    FRITZLAR. 


TV"  ATE.    I  should  like  to  know  what  became  of  our  mys- 
■^^  terious  '  Layman/  Nicholas  of  Basle. 

Atherton,  He  lived  on  many  years,  the  hidden  ubiquitous 
master-spirit  of  the  Friends  of  God;  expending  his  wealth  in 
restless  rapid  travels  to  and  fro,  and  in  aiding  the  adherents  of 
the  good  cause ;  suddenly  appearing,  now  in  the  north  and  now 
in  the  south,  to  encourage  and  exhort,  to  seek  out  new  disciples 
and  to  confirm  the  old ;  and  again  vanishing  as  suddenly,  con- 
cealing his  abode  even  from  his  spiritual  children,  while  sending 
them  frequent  tracts  and  letters  by  his  trusty  messenger 
Ruprecht ;  growing  ever  more  sad  and  earnest  under  repeated 
visions  of  judgment  overhanging  Christendom;  studying  the 
Scriptures  (which  had  opened  his  eyes  to  so  much  of  Romanist 
error)  somewhat  after  the  old  Covenanter  fashion,  with  an 
indiscriminate  application  of  Old  Testament  history,  and  a  firm 
belief  that  his  revelations  were  such  as  prophets  and  apostles 
enjoyed, — till,  at  last,  at  the  close  of  the  century,  he  was  over- 
taken at  Viemia  by  the  foe  he  had  so  often  bafiied,  and  the 

1  The   Masters  speak  of  two  faces  latter  face  shinetii  and   gloweth  God 

the  soul  hath.     The  one  face  is  turned  eternally,    whether  man    is    ware    or 

towards   this   world      The  other  face  unaware  thereof, 
is  turned  direct  toward  God.      In  this 


360         German  Mysticism  in  the  14.    Ceninry.        [b.  vi. 

Inquisition  yet  more  ennobled  a  noble  life  by  the  fiery  gift  of 
martyrdom,* 

GowER,  I  can  well  imagine  what  a  basilisk  eye  the  Inquisi- 
tion must  have  kept  on  these  lay-priests — these  indefatigable 
writers  and  preachers  to  the  people  in  the  forbidden  vernacular 
— these  Friends  of  God,  Beghards,  and  Waldenses ;  and  on 
those  audacious  Ishmaels,  the  Brethren  of  the  Free  Spirit,  most 
of  all.  I  fancy  I  see  it,  lurking  always  on  the  edge  of  any 
light,  watching  and  watching,  as  they  say  the  Indian  lizard  does, 
crouched  in  the  shadow  just  outside  the  circle  of  light  a  lamp 
makes  upon  the  ceiling,  to  snatch  up  with  its  arrowy  tongue  the 
moths  which  fly  toward  the  fascinating  brightness. 

WiLLOUGHBV.  And  do  not  let  us  forget  that  even  those 
pantheistic  Brethren  of  the  Free  Spirit,  with  all  their  coarseness 
and  violence  of  exaggeration,  held  at  least  some  little  truth,  and 
might  plead  a  large  excuse.  If  some  of  them  broke  blindly 
through  all  restraint,  they  made  at  any  rate  a  breach  in  priest- 
craft better  used  by  better  men. — 

GowER. — Just  as  the  track  where  buffaloes  have  made  their 
huge  crashing  way  through  the  forest,  has  often  guided  the 
hunter  of  the  backwoods. 

Atherton.  We  must  not  think  that  the  efforts  of  such  a 
man  as  Nicholas  were  fruitless,  whatever  the  apparent  success 
of  his  persecutors. — 

Gower. — Though  history  has  paid  him  too  little  attention, 
and  though  the  Inquisition  paid  him  too  much.  How  I  love  to 
find  examples  of  that  consoling  truth  that  no  well-meant  effort 
for  God  and  man  can  ever  really  die — that  the  relics  of  vanished, 
vanquished  endeavours  are  gathered  up  and  conserved,  and  by 
the  spiritual  chemistry  of  Providence  transformed  into  a  new 

-  Schmidt's    Tauter,  pp.  205,    &c. —  this   authority)    et    idcirco  maiius    In- 

Mosheim  gives  the  passage   in   Nieder  quisitorum  diu  evaserat.' — Mosheim  de 

relating  the  apprehension  and  death  of  Beghardis  el  Beguiriabus,  cap.  iv.  j  42, 

Nicholas: — 'Acutissimusenimerat(says  p.  454, 


0-  9-]  The  Fate  of  Nicholas.  361 

life  in  a  new  age,  so  that  the  dead  rise,  and  mortality  puts  on 
immortahty.  The  lessons  such  men  scattered,  though  they 
might  seem  to  perish,  perpetuated  a  hidden  life  till  Luther's 
time ; — like  the  dead  leaves  about  the  winter  tree,  they  preserved 
the  roots  from  the  teeth  of  the  frost,  and  covered  a  vitality 
within,  which  was  soon  to  blossom  on  every  bough  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  Reformation. 

Atherton.  Our  fourteenth  century,  so  full  of  mysticism 
both  in  East  and  West,  has  some  other  mystical  products  to 
show,  principally  of  the  visionary,  theurgic  species.  There  is 
St.  Brigitta,  a  widow  of  rank,  leaving  her  Swedish  pine  forests 
to  visit  Palestine,  and  after  honouring  with  a  pilgrimage  every 
shrine  and  relic  in  southern  Europe,  fixing  her  residence  at 
Rome,  to  the  great  pecuniary  advantage  of  the  faithful  there. 
She  writes  a  discourse  on  the  Blessed  Virgin  at  the  dictation  of 
an  angel,  who  visited  her  punctually  for  the  purpose  :  indites 
bombastic  invocations  to  the  eyes,  ears,  hair,  chin,  &c.,  of  the 
Saviour ;  and  ditto  to  ditto  of  the  Virgin  ;  and,  what  was  not 
quite  so  bad,  gives  to  the  world  a  series  of  revelations  and 
prophecies,  in  which  the  vices  of  popes  and  prelates  are  lashed 
unsparingly,  and  threatened  with  speedy  judgment.^ 

WiLLOUGHBY.  It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  this  series  of 

'^See Kevelationes SelectcB S.Brigittce  A  common    mode   of  self-mortifica- 

(Heuser,  1851). — This  is  a  selection  for  tion   with    her   found    an    imitator    in 

the  edification  of  good  Catholics,   and  Madame  Guyon  : — the  Swede  dropped 

contains   accordingly  the  most  Mario-  tlie  wax  of  liglited  tapers  on   htr  bpre 

latrous     and    least   important   of  her  flesh,  and  carried  gentian  iii  her  mouth 

writings.    Rudelbach  gives  some  speci-  • — Vita,^.6.  The  Frenchwoman  burned 

mens  of  her  spirited  rebuke  of  papal  herself    with   hot    sealing-wax    in    the 

\mc\w\t.y  \nh\sSavonaroLT,  pp.  300,  (S:c.  same  manner,  and  chewed   a  quid  of 

In  iier  prophetic  capacity  she  does  not  coloquintida. 

hesitate  to  call  the  pope  a  murderer  of  The  Revelationes  de  Vita  ei  Fassione 
souls,  and  to  declare  him  and  his  Jesii  Christi  ct gloriosce  I'irgiiiis,  con- 
greedy  prelates  forerunners  of  Anti-  tain  a  puerile  and  profane  account  of 
Christ.  She  says, — '  If  a  man  comes  tlie  birth,  childhood,  and  deatli  of  our 
to  them  with  four  wounds,  he  goes  Lord,  in  the  style  of  the  apocryphal 
away  with  five."  Like  Savonarola,  she  Gospel  of  the  hifancy,  professedly 
placed  her  sole  hope  of  reform  in  a  conveyed  in  conversations  with  the 
general  council.  authoress  by  the  Mother  and  her  Son. 


362         German  Mysticism  in  the  i/^^^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

reformatory  prophets^  male  and  female.  From  the  twelfth  to 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  there  is  a  succession  of  them, 
called  forth  by  the  hideousness  of  ecclesiastical  corruption — 
Hildegard,  Joachim,  Brigitta,  Savonarola. 

GowER.  Do  not  forget  Dante. 

Atherton.  You  hear  them  all  executing  variations,  plaintive 
or  indignant,  menacing  or  despairing,  on  the  old  and  never 
antiquated  theme — 

Curia  Roniana  non  petit  ovem  sine  lani, 
Dantes  exaudit,  non  dantibus  ostia  claudit. 

GowER.  And,  to  silence  these  complaints,  the  Church  found 
inquisitors  and  censors  of  service,  but  most  of  all — her  pattern 
children — those  enthusiasts  whose  painful  labours  were  em- 
ployed to  quiet  the  croaking,  much  as  the  lord  in  old  feudal 
times  would  often  exercise  his  right  of  compelling  a  vassal  to 
spend  a  night  or  two  in  beating  the  waters  of  the  ponds,  to 
stop  the  frog-chorus  there,  and  procure  his  master  an  easy 
sleep.  Obedient  enthusiasm  toils  all  night  that  cardinals  may 
snore. 

Atherton.  Angela  de  Foligni,  who  made  herself  miserable 
— I  must  say  something  the  converse  of  flourished — about  the 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  was  a  fine  model  pupil  of 
this  sort,  a  genuine  daughter  of  St.  Francis.  Her  mother,  her 
husband,  her  children  dead,  she  is  alone  and  sorrowful.  She 
betakes  herself  to  violent  devotion — falls  ill — suffers  incessant 
anguish  from  a  complication  of  disorders — has  rapturous 
consolations  and  terrific  temptations — is  dashed  in  a  moment 
from  a  seat  of  glory  above  the  empyrean  to  a  depth  so  low  that 
the  floor  of  hell  might  be  its  zenith.     She  tells  us  how,  on  her 

The  Virgin  tells  her,  in  reference  to  that  his  hair  was  never  in  a  tangle — 
her  Son,  — '  quomodo  neque  aliqua  (nee  perplexitas  in  capillise  jus  appa- 
immuaditia  ascendit  super  eum  ;'  and     ruit). 


c.  9-] 


Angela  de  Foligni. 


363 


way  to  Assisi,  the  Saviour  addressed  her,  called  her  his  love,  his 
sweet,  his  joy;  and  manifested  himself  within  her  soul  as  he 
had  never  done  to  evangelist  or  apostle.  On  one  occasion,  her 
face  shone  with  a  divine  glory,  her  eyes  were  as  flaming  lamps ; 
on  another,  a  star  proceeded  from  her  side,  broke  into  a  thousand 
beautiful  colours,  and  glided  upwards  into  the  sky.* 

WiLLOUGHBY.  A  notable  example  of  mystical  pyrotechny. 

Atherton.  Her  etherialised  olfactories  were  gratified  by 
odours  of  indescribable  fragrance ;  and  to  her  exalted  taste,  the 
consecrated  wafer  became  almost  insupportably  dehcious. 
Visions  and  ecstasies  by  scores  are  narrated  from  her  lips  in  the 
wretched  Latin  of  Arnold  the  Minorite.  All  is  naught !  The 
flattest  and  most  insipid  reading  in  the  world— from  first  to  last 


4  'Angela  de  Foligni.'  See  Beatm 
Angelcede  Ftilginio  Visionum  et  In- 
structionum  Liber;  (recens.  J.  H. 
Lammertz  ;  Cologne,  i85r.) — The  ac- 
count of  the  wonderful  star  is  given  by 
Arnold  in  his  Prologue,  p.  12.  At  one 
time  it  is  promised  by  the  Lord  that 
the  'whole  Trinity  shall  enter  into  her,' 
(capit.  XX.)  ;  at  another,  she  is  trans- 
ported into  the  midst  of  the  Trinity. 
— (Capit.  xxxii.)  In  chapter  after 
chapter  of  monotonous  inflation,  she 
wearies  and  disappoints  the  curious 
reader  by  declaring  her  'abysses  of 
delectation  and  illumination'  altogether 
unutterable, — such  as  language  pro- 
fanes rather  than  expresses — -'inen- 
arrabiles,'  'indicibiles,'  &c.  So  the 
miraculous  taste  of  the  host  to  her 
favoured  palate  was  not  like  bread  or 
flesh,  but  a  'sapor  sapidissimus,' — like 
nothing  that  can  be  named. — Capit.  -xl. 

The  following  act  of  saintship  we 
give  in  the  original,  lest  in  English  it 
should  act  on  delicate  readers  as  an 
emetic.  She  speaks  of  herself  and  a 
sister  ascetic  : — '  Lavimus  pedes  femi- 
narum  ibi  existentium  pauperum,  et 
manus  hominum,  et  maxime  cujus- 
dam  leprosi,  qui  liabebat  manus  valde 
foetidas  et    marcidas  et  prsepeditas  et 


corruptas ;  et  bibimns  de  ilia  lotura. 
Tantam  autem  dulcedineni  sensimus 
in  illo  potu,  quod  per  totam  viam 
venimus  in  magna  suavitate,  et  vide- 
batur  mihi  per  omnia  quod  ego  gus- 
tassem  mirabilem  dulcedinem,  quantum 
ad  suavitatem  quam  ibi  inveni.  Et 
quia  quasdam  squamula  illarum  plaga- 
rum  erat  interposita  in  gutture  meo, 
conata  sum  ad  diglutiendum  eam,  sicut 
si  communicassem,  donee  deglutivi 
eam.  Unde  tantam  suavitatem  inveni 
in  hoc,  quod  eam  non  possum  e.xpri- 
mere.' — Capit.  1.  p.  176. 

In  her  '  Instructions,"  she  lays  it 
down  as  a  rule  that  none  can  ever  be 
deceived  in  the  visions  and  manifesta- 
tions vouchsafed  them  who  are  truly 
poor  in  spirit, — who  have  rendered 
themselves  as  '  dead  and  putrid'  into 
the  hands  of  God.  (Capp.  liv.  Iv. ) 
She  says  that  when  God  manifests 
Himself  to  the  soul,  'it  sees  Him, 
without  bodily  form,  indeed,  but  more 
distinctly  than  one  man  can  see  an- 
other m.an,  for  the  eyes  of  the  soul 
behold  a  spiritual  plenitude,  not  a  cor- 
poreal, whereof  I  can  say  nothing, 
since  both  words  and  imagination  fail 
here.'  (Capit.  Hi.  p.  192.)  Angela 
died  in  1309, 


3  64         German  Mysticism  in  the  1 4'''  Century.        [u.  vi. 

a  repetition  of  the  old  stock  phrase,  'feeUngs  more  readily 
imagined  than  described.'  She  concludes  every  account  by 
saying,  '  No  words  can  describe  what  I  enjoyed ;'  and  each 
rapture  is  declared  to  surpass  in  bliss  all  the  preceding. 

LowESTOFFE.  Enough  !  enough  !  , 

Atherton.  Catharine  of  Siena 

WiLLOUGHBY.  No  more,  pray. 

Atherton.  Only  this  one.  Catharine  of  Siena  closes  the 
century.  She  is  a  specimen  somewhat  less  wretched,  of  this 
delirious  mysticism.  Her  visions  began  when  she  was  six  years 
old,  and  a  solemn  betrothal  to  our  Lord  was  celebrated,  with 
ring  and  vow,  not  very  long  after.  She  travelled  through  the 
cities  and  hamlets  of  Italy,  teaching,  warning,  expostulating, 
and  proclaiming  to  assembled  crowds  the  wonders  she  had  seen 
in  heaven  and  hell  during  that  trance  in  which  all  had  thought 
her  dead.  She  journeyed  from  Florence  to  Avignon,  and  back 
to  Florence  again,  to  reconcile  the  Pope  and  Italy;  she  thrust 
herself  between  the  spears  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline — a  whole 
Mediaeval  Peace-Society  in  her  woman's  heart — and  when  she 
sank  at  last,  saw  all  her  labour  swept  away,  as  the  stormy 
waters  of  the  Great  Schism  closed  over  her  head." 

GowER.  What  a  condemning  comment  on  the  pretended 
tender  mercies  of  the  Church  are  those  narratives  which  Rome 
delights  to  parade  of  the  sufferings,  mental  and  bodily,  which 
her  devotees  were  instructed  to  inflict  upon  themselves  !  I  am 
reminded  of  the  thirsting  mule,  which  has,  in  some  countries, 
to  strike  with  its  hoof  among  the  spines  of  the  cactus,  and  drink, 
with  lamed  foot  and  blcedmg  lips,  the  few  drops  of  milk  which 
ooze  from  the  broken  thorns.  Affectionate  suffering  natures 
came  to  Rome  for  comfort ;  but  her  scanty  kindness  is  only  to 
be  drawn  with  anguish  from  the  cruel  sharpness  of  asceticism. 

•i  '  Ciilhariiic  of  Siena.'  Gorres  trodiiction  to  Diepenbrock's  edition  of 
gives  a  short  account   of  her  in  his  In-     Siiso,  p.  96. 


c.  9.]  Rome  and  Her  Devotees.  365 


The  worldly,  the  audacious,  escape  easily  ;  but  these  pliant 
excitable  temperaments,  so  anxiously  in  earnest,  may  be  made 
useful.  The  more  dangerous,  frightful,  or  unnatural  their 
performances,  the  more  profit  for  their  keepers.  Men  and  women 
are  trained  by  torturing  processes  to  deny  their  nature,  and  then 
they  are  exhibited  to  bring  grist  to  the  mill — like  birds  and 
beasts  forced  to  postures  and  services  against  the  laws  of  their 
being — like  those  who  must  perform  perilous  feats  on  ropes  or 
with  lions,  nightly  hazarding  their  lives  to  fill  the  pockets  of  a 
manager.  The  self-devotion  of  which  Rome  boasts  so  much  is 
a  self-devotion  she  has  always  thus  made  the  most  of  for  herself. 
Calculating  men,  who  have  thought  only  of  the  interest  of  the 
priesthood,  have  known  well  how  best  to  stimulate  and  to 
display  the  spasmodic  movements  of  a  brainsick  disinterested- 
ness. I  have  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that,  once  and  again,  some 
priest  might  have  been  seen,  with  cold  grey  eye,  endeavouring 
to  do  a  stroke  of  diplomacy  by  means  of  ihe  enthusiastic 
Catharine,  making  the  fancied  ambassadress  of  heaven  in 
reality  the  tool  of  a  schemer.  Such  unquestionable  virtues  as 
these  visionaries  may  some  of  them  have  possessed,  cannot  be 
fairly  set  down  to  the  credit  of  the  Church,  which  has  used 
them  all  for  mercenary  or  ambitious  purposes,  and  infected  them 
everywhere  with  a  morbid  character.  Some  of  these  mystics, 
floating  down  the  great  ecclesiastical  current  of  the  Middle  Age, 
appear  to  me  like  the  trees  carried  away  by  the  inundation  of 
some  mighty  tropical  river.  They  drift  along  the  stream, 
passive,  lifeless,  broken ;  yet  they  are  covered  with  gay  verdure, 
the  aquatic  plants  hang  and  twine  about  the  sodden  timber  and 
the  draggled  leaves,  the  trunk  is  a  sailing  garden  of  flowers. 
But  the  adornment  is  not  that  of  nature — it  is  the  decoration  of 
another  and  a  strange  element ;  the  roots  are  in  the  air ;  the 
boughs,  which  should  be  full  of  birds,  are  in  the  flood,  covered 
by  its  alien  products,  swimming  side  by  side  with  the  alligator. 


366        German  Mysticism  in  the  14''^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

So  has  this  priestcraft  swept  its  victims  from  their  natural  place 
and  independent  growth,  to  clothe  them  in  their  helplessness, 
with  a  false  spiritual  adornment,  neither  scriptural  nor  human, 
but  ecclesiastical — the  native  product  of  that  overwhelming 
superstition  which  has  subverted  and  enslaved  their  nature. 
The  Church  of  Rome  takes  care  that  while  simple  souls  think 
they  are  cultivating  Christian  graces,  they  shall  be  forging  their 
own  chains ;  that  their  attempts  to  honour  God  shall  always 
dishonour,  because  they  disenfranchise  themselves.  To  be 
humble,  to  be  obedient,  to  be  charitable,  under  such  direction, 
is  to  be  contentedly  ignorant,  pitiably  abject,  and  notoriously 
swindled. 

Atherton.  Strong  language,  Lionel, — yet  not  unjust  to  the 
spirit  of  the  Romanist  system.  The  charity  which  pities  the 
oppressed  is  bound  to  denounce  the  oppressor. 

WiLLOUGHBV.  Rem  acu  tetigisti.  If  you  call  priestcraft 
by  smooth  names,  your  spurious  charity  to  the  tyrant  is  un- 
charitableness  to  the  slave.  It  is  sickening  to  hear  the  unctuous 
talk  with  which  now-a-days  ultra-liberalism  will  sometimes 
stretch  out  a  hand  to  spiritual  tyranny. 

Atherton.  Not  surprising.  It  is  just  like  the  sentimental 
sympathy  got  up  for  some  notorious  criminal,  which  forgets  the 
outrage  to  society  and  the  sufferings  of  the  innocent,  in  concern 
for  the  interesting  offender. 

And  now  let  us  bid  adieu  to  that  fourteenth  century  which 
has  occupied  us  so  long.  I  shall  only  afflict  you  with  one  more 
paper, — to-morrow,  Lowestoffe,  if  we  don't  go  to  Hawksfell. 
Some  notes  I  have  drawn  up  on  the  contemporary  Persian 
mysticism. 

Wii.LouGHBY.  Stay — do  not  let  us  forget  that  little  book,  so 
much  read  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  praised  and  edited  by 
Luther, — the   German   Theology!"     I  have  read  it  with  great 

•>  The  theology  of  this  remarkable  with  that  already  familiar  to  us  in  the 
little  book  is  substantially  the  same     sermons  of  Tauler.      Luther,  writing 


c.  9.]  The  German  Theology.  367 

interest.  It  seems  to  me  to  stand  alone  as  an  attempt  to 
systematise  the  speculative  element  in  the  more  orthodox 
mysticism  of  the  age. 

Atherton.  We  may  call  it  a  summary  of  Tauler's  doctrine, 
without  his  fancy  and  vehement  appeal ;  it  is  a  treatise  philo- 
sophic in  its  calmness,  deservedly  popular  for  its  homely, 
idiomatic  diction.  What  we  were  saying  about  Tauler  applies 
substantially  to  the  T/ieologia  Gennanica. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  I  have  been  waiting  to  hear  something 
about  Thomas  a  Kempis,^ — certainly  the  best  known  of  all  your 
mystics. 

Atherton,  Right,  Who  could  forget  the  comforter  of  the 
fifteenth  century  ?  It  is  curious  to  compare  the  third  book  of 
his  Imitation  of  Christy  with  its  dialogue  between  Christ  and 
the  disciple,  and  Suso's  conversation,  in  his  Book  of  the  Eternal 
Wisdom,  between  Wisdom  and  the  Servant. 

Gower.  There  is  less  genius,  less  abatidon,  if  one  may  so  say, 
about  Thomas. 

Atherton.  Decidedly.  That  original  and  daring  spirit 
which  carried  mysticism  to  such  a  height  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  could  not  survive  in  the  fifteenth, — an  age  tending 
towards  consoUdation  and  equilibrium,  bent  on  the  softening 
down  of  extremes.     Suso,  a  poet  as  much  as  an  ascetic,  is 

to  Spalatin,  and  praising  Tauler's  theo-  of  Gerlacus  Petrus  is  a  contemporary 

logy,   sends    with  his  letter   what   he  treatise  belonging  to  the  same  scliool. 

calls  an  epitome  thereof, — cujus  totiiis  (Comp.    capp.    .\xxix.   and   xxvi.;   ed. 

velut   epitomen    ecce    hie    tibi   mitto.  Strange,  1849.)     ^^  's  less  popular,  less 

(Epp.  De  IVefte,  No.  xxv.)     He  refers,  impassioned  than  the  Imitation,  and 

there  can  be  little  doubt,  to  his  edition  more  thoroughly  impregnated  with  the 

o{  ihe  Deutsche  Theologic,\\h\Qh  cmna  spirit   of    my.sticism.      Gerlach   would 

out  that  year.  seem  to  have  studied  Suso :  in  one  place 

'  See,  especially,  the  twelfth  chapter  he  imitates  his  language.     The  cast  of 

of  the  second  book,  On  the  Necessity  his  imagery,  as  well  as  the  prominence 

of  bearing  Jie  Cross.    Compare  Miche-  given   to   mystical   phraseology,    more 

let's   somewhat  overdrawn  picture   of  peculiar  to  the  Germans,  shows  that  he 

the    effects   of    the   Imitation    in   his  addresses  himself  to  an  advanced  and 

History  of  France.  comparatively  esoteric  circle, — Comp. 

The  Ignitum  cum  Deo  Soliloquium  capp.  xxii.  xxiv.  p.  78. 


368        German  Mysticism  in  the  14^^'  Century.        [b.  vi. 

continually  quitting  his  cell  to  admire  nature  and  to  mix  with  men. 
He  mingles  speculation  borrowed  from  his  master,  Eckart,  with 
the  luxuriant  play  of  his  own  inexhaustible  fancy.  Thomas  a 
Kempis  is  exclusively  the  ascetic.  His  mysticism  ranges  in  a 
narrower  sphere.  Hence,  to  a  great  extent,  his  wider  influence. 
He  abjures  everything  that  belongs  to  the  thought  of  the  philo- 
sopher or  the  fine  feeling  of  the  artist.  He  appeals  neither  to 
the  intellect  nor  to  the  imagination — simply  to  the  heart.  He 
could  be  understood  without  learning,  appreciated  without 
taste,  and  so  thousands,  in  castle  and  in  cloister,  prayed  and 
wept  over  his  earnest  page.  '  See  !'  said  he,  '  this  life  is  filled 
with  crosses.'  And  multitudes,  in  misery,  or  fear  of  misery, 
made  answer,  '  It  is  true.' — '  Then,'  urged  the  comforter,  '  be 
thyself  crucified  to  it,  and  it  cannot  harm  thee.  Cease  to  have 
any  care,  any  aim,  any  hope  or  fear,  save  Christ.  Yield  thyself, 
utterly  passive  and  dead  to  this  life,  into  his  hands  who  is  Lord 
of  a  better.'  Then  the  sufferers  dried  their  tears,  and  strove 
hard  to  forget  time  and  se'f  in  contemplating  Christ. 

GowER.  And,  let  us  hope,  not  always  quite  in  vain. 

Atherton.  I  have  one  more  name  yet  upon  my  list,  with 
which  the  mediaeval  mysticism  reaches  its  conclusion.  It  is  the 
great  Frenchman,  Chancellor  Gerson.^  His  figure  stands  out 
prominently  among  the  confusions  of  the  time,  half-way  between 
the  old  age  and  the  new.  Up  to  a  certain  point,  he  is  a 
reformer  ;  beyond  it,  the  enemy  of  reform.  He  is  active  in  the 
deposition  of  John  XXII.,  yet  he  does  not  hesitate  to  burn 
John  Huss.  He  looks  on,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  when 
the  royal  secretaries  stab  with  their  penknives  the  papal  bulls, 
and  the  rector  tears  the  insolent  parchment  into  shreds.  He 
sees,  half  with  pity  and  half  with  triumph,  the  emissaries  of 
the  Pope,  crowned  in  mockery  with  paper  tiaras,  and  hung  with 

8  'Gerson.' — See  an  article  by  Lieb-  the  TluologlscheStudienundKritiken; 
ner  (Gerson's   Mystische  Tkeologie)  in     1835,  ii. 


c.  9.]  Gerso7i.  369 

insulting  scrolls,  dragged  through  the  streets  in  a  scavenger's 
tumbril,  to  be  pilloried  by  angry  Paris.  But  he  stands  aloof 
in  disdain  when  the  University,  deserted  by  the  Parliament, 
fraternizes  with  the  mob  to  enforce  reform, — when  threadbare 
students  come  down  from  their  garrets  in  the  Pays  Latin  to 
join  the  burly  butchers  of  St.  Jacques  la  Boucherie, — when 
grave  doctors  shake  hands  with  ox-fellers,  and  Franciscans  and 
White-hoods  shout  together  for  the  charter. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  very  wrong  he  was,  too,  for  those 
butchers,  rough  as  they  were,  were  right  in  the  main, — honest, 
energetic  fellows,  with  good  heads  on  their  shoulders.  Could 
they  but  have  raised  money,  they  would  have  saved  France. 
But  Gerson  would  rather  be  plundered  than  pay  their  tax,  and 
had  to  hurry  down  for  hiding  to  the  vaults  of  Notre  Dame. 
I  remember  the  story.  And  when  the  princes  came  back  to 
power,  the  moderates  were  pillaged  like  the  rest, — and  serve 
them  right. 

Atherton.  Yes,  the  reform  demanded  was  just  and  mode- 
rate, and  even  the  rioters  lost  none  of  their  respect  for  royalty, 
feeling  still  in  their  rude  hearts  no  little  of  that  chivalrous 
loyalty  which  animated  Gerson  himself  when  he  bent  low  before 
the  poor  idiot  king,  and  with  oriental  reverence  exclaimed,  '  O 
King,  live  for  ever  !'  Gerson  was  a  radical  in  the  Church  and 
a  conservative  in  the  State — the  antagonist  of  the  political 
republicanism,  the  champion  of  the  ecclesiastical.  His 
sanguine  hopes  of  peace  for  his  country  and  of  reform  for  his 
Church,  were  alike  doomed  to  disappointment. 

His  great  work  on  the  theory  and  practice  of  mysticism  was 
composed  during  the  stormy  period  of  his  public  life.  Imagine 
how  happily  he  forgot  popes  and  councils,  Cabochiens  and 
Armagnacs,  during  those  brief  intervals  of  quiet  which  he 
devoted  to  the  elaboration  of  a  psychology  that  should  give  to 
mysticism  a  scientific  basis.     Nominalist  as  he  was,  and  fully 

VOL.  I.  B  B 


^yo        German  Mysticism  in  the  14     Century.       [b.  vi. 

conscious  of  the  defects  of  scholasticism,  then  tottering  to  itj 
fall,  he  differs  little  in  his  results  from  Richard  of  St.  Victor 
He  closes  the  series  of  those  who  have  combined  mysticism 
with  scholasticism,  and  furnishes  in  himself  a  summary  and 
critical  resume  of  all  that  had  previously  been  accomplished  in 
this  direction.  He  was  desirous  at  once  of  making  mysticism 
definite  and  intelligible,  and  of  rendering  the  study  of  theology 
as  a  science  more  practical,  devout,  and  scriptural.  Hence  his 
opposition  to  the  extravagance  of  Ruysbroek  on  the  one  side, 
and  to  the  frigid  disputation  of  the  schools  on  the  other.  He 
essays  to  define  and  investigate  the  nature  of  ecstasy  and 
rapture.  He  even  introduces  into  mysticism  that  reflection 
which  its  very  principle  repudiates.  He  recommends  an 
inductive  process,  which  is  to  arrange  and  compare  the 
phenomena  of  mysticism  as  manifest  in  the  history  of  saintly 
men,  and  thence  to  determirie  the  true  and  legitimate  mystical 
experience,  as  opposed  to  the  heterodox  and  the  fantastic. 
He  maintains  that  man  rises  to  the  height  of  abstract  con- 
templation, neither  by  the  intellectual  machinery  of  Realism, 
nor  by  the  flights  of  Imagination.  If  he  attempts  the  first, 
he  becomes  a  heretic ;  if  the  second,  a  visionary.  The  in- 
dispensable requisite  is  what  he  calls  'rapturous  love.'  Yet 
even  this  is  knowledge  in  the  truest  sense,  and  quite  compatible 
with  a  rational,  though  impassioned  self-consciousness.  His 
doctrine  of  union  is  so  temperate  and  guarded  as  almost  to  ex- 
clude him  from  the  genuine  mystical  fellowship.  He  has  no 
visions  or  exaltations  of  his  own  to  tell  of.  Resembling 
Richard  in  this  respect,  to  whom  he  is  so  much  indebted, 
he  elaborates  a  system,  erects  a  tabernacle,  and  leaves  it  to 
others  to  penetrate  to  the  inmost  sanctuary.  Like  Bernard,  he 
thinks  those  arduous  and  dazzling  heights  of  devotion  are  for 
'the  harts  and  climbing  goats,'  not  for  active  practical  men  such 
IS  the  Chancellor.     Above  all,  urges    this  reformer   both    of 


c.  9.]  Symbols  of  Mysticism.  371 

the  schoolmen  and  the  mystics,  clear  your  mind  of  phantasms 
— do  not  mistake  the  creations  of  your  own  imagination  for 
objective  spiritual  realities.  In  other  words,  '  Be  a  mystic,  but 
do  not  be  what  nine  mystics  out  of  every  ten  always  have 
been.' 

But  now  let  us  have  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

Thither  all  repaired.  They  entered  the  conservatory  to 
look  at  the  flowers. 

'Which  will  you  have,  Mr.  Atherton,'  a^^ked  Kate,  'to  repre- 
sent your  mystics  ?  These  stiff,  apathetic  cactuses  and  aloes, 
that  seem  to  know  no  changes  of  summer  and  winter,  or  these 
light  stemless  blossoms,  that  send  out  their  delicate  roots  into 
the  air  ?' 

'  Those  Aroidece,  do  you  mean  ?'  replied  Atherton.  '  I  think 
we  must  divide  them,  and  let  some  mystics  have  those  impassive 
plants  of  iron  for  their  device,  while  others  shall  wear  the 
silken  filaments  of  these  aerial  flowers  that  are  such  pets  of 
yours.' 

As  they  came  out,  the  sun  was  setting  in  unusual  splendour, 
and  they  stood  in  the  porch  to  admire  it. 

'I  Avas  watching  it  an  hour  ago,' said  Gower.  'Then  the 
western  sky  was  crossed  by  gleaming  lines  of  silver,  with 
broken  streaks  of  grey  and  purple  between.  It  was  the  funeral 
pyre  not  yet  kindled,  glittering  with  royal  robe  and  arms  of 
steel,  belonging  to  the  sun-god.  Now,  see,  he  has  descended, 
and  lies  upon  it — the  torch  is  applied,  the  glow  of  the  great 
burning  reaches  over  to  the  very  east.  The  clouds,  to  the 
zenith,  are  wreaths  of  smoke,  their  volumes  ruddily  touched 
beneath  by  the  flame  on  the  horizon,  and  those  about  the  sun 
are  like  ignited  beams  in  a  great  conflagration,  now  falling  in 
and  lost  in  the  radiance,  now  sending  out  fresli  shapes  of  flash- 
ing fire :  that  is  not  to  be  painted  !' 


372         German  Mysticism  in  the  lA^   Century.        [b.  vi. 

LowESTOFFE  (starting).  The  swan,  I  declare !  How  can  he 
have  got  out?    That  scoundrel,  John! 

Atherton.  Never  mind.  I  know  what  he  comes  for.  He 
is  a  messenger  from  Lethe,  to  tell  us  not  to  forget  good  Tauler. 

LowESTOFFE.  Lethe!    Nonsense. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  My  love,  how  can  you  ? 

Atherton.  I'he  creature  reminded  me  of  an  allegorical  fancy 
recorded  by  Bacon, — that  is  all.  At  the  end  of  the  thread  of 
every  man's  life  there  is  a  little  medal  containing  his  name. 
Time  waits  upon  the  shears,  and  as  soon  as  the  thread  is  cut, 
catches  the  medals,  and  carries  them  to  the  river  of  Lethe, 
About  the  bank  there  are  many  birds  flying  up  and  down,  that 
will  get  the  medals  and  carry  them  in  their  beak  a  little  while, 
and  then  let  them  fall  into  the  river.  Only  there  are  a  few 
swans,  which,  if  they  get  a  name,  will  carry  it  to  a  temple, 
where  it  is  consecrated.    Let  the  name  of  Tauler  find  a  swan  ! 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


HOURS    WITH    THE    MYSTICS 


VOL.    II. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOT..  IT. 


BOOK  VII.—PERSIAN  MYSTICISM   IN  THE  MIDDLE 

AGE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

The  Sufis ;  their  Mystical  Poetry .', 

Mystical  Poetry  in  the  West ;  Angelus  Silesius         ....         5 
R.  W.  Emerson 8 

CHAPTER  II. 

Rabia lo 

The  Oriental  and  the  Western  Mysticism  compared  .         .        .         .12 


BOOK  VIIL— THEOSOPHY  IN  THE  AGE  OF  THE 
REFORMATION. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Position  of  the  Mystics  as  regards  the  Reformation     .         .         .  3I 

The  Advantage  of  the  Ground  occupied  by  Luther   .  ...  32 

Menacing  Character  of  the  Revolutionary  Mysticism  ...  35 

The  Anabaptists  of  Munster 37 

CHAPTER  XL 

Luther  and  the  Mystics 41 

The  Prophets  of  Zwickau •       44 

Carlstadt 44 


vi  Contents. 


PAGB 

Sebastian  Frank 47 

Schwenkfeld 50 

Weigel tI 

CHAPTER  III. 

Mysticism  and  Science     .........  53 

The  Cabbala 55 

Nature  studied  by  the  Light  of  Grace       ....          •         •  57 

Alchemy 58 

Theurgy 59 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Cornelius  Agrippa .61 

The  Science  of  Sympathies       ........  63 

Redemption,  Natural  and  Spiritual           .         .         .         .         .         .  67 

CHAPTER  V. 

Theophrastus  Paracelsus 71 

Signatures       ...........  76 

Theological  Chemistry     .         .         .         .         .         ,         ,         .         •  77 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Jacob  Behmen  and  his  Aurora  .         .         ,         .         »        .         '79 

Illumination    ...........  82 

Troubles          ......          .....  86 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Jacob  Behmen,  his  Materials,  and  Style  of  Workmanship          .         .  90 

The  Theory  of  Development  by  Contraries       .....  92 

The  Three  Gates     ..........  95 

The  Aurora    . •         •  97 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Jacob  Behmen — Sketch  and  Estimate  of  his  System          .        .         .  103 

The  Mysterium  Magnum           ........  104 

The  Seven  Fountain- Spirits     .         ,         ......  104 

Examination  of  his  Doctrine  concerning  the  Origin  of  Evil         .         .  109 

The  Fall 115 

IMerits  of  his  Theosophy '     .        .         .119 


Contents.  vii 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PAOB 

The  Rosicrucians     .         ,         .         .         .         .         .         .         «         .  12S 

Romance  and  Reality       . 129 

Valentine  Andrea,  and  his /(7Wrt /"r(7/'(V«//(?.'/jr  .         .         .         .         .134 

Secret  Societies        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .136 

The  Creatures  of  the  Elements  •         .         .         .         .         .         .138 

Magical  Words        .         .         ,.         .         „  ,         .         .140 

Pordage  and  the  i^iiladelphian  Society I42 

Joanna  Leade 144 

BOOK  IX.— THE  SPANISH  MYSTICS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Neo-Platonism  revived  in  Italy        .......  147 

Its  Weakness,  opposed  to  the  Reformation       .....  148 

The  Counter- reformation 150 

Headed  by  Spain 150 

Character  of  its  Mysticism 151 

St.  Theresa 153 

Her  Autobiography 156 

The  Director 158 

Visions 160 

CHAPTER  II. 

Theresa's  Four  Degrees  of  Prayer 167 

Her  Quietism 171 

CHAPTER  III. 

St.  John  of  the  Cross 182 

His  Asceticism 183 

His  Mystical  Night 185 

More  elevated  Character  of  his  Mysticism 193 

BOOK  X.— QUIETISM. 
CHAPTER  I. 

Queen  Quietude .  201 

The  Doctrine  of  '  Pure  Love' discussed    .        ,        ,        .        .         .  205 


iriii  Contents. 


PAGB 


Madame  Guyon        .         .         ........     207 

Her  Unhappy  Marriage  .........     208 

The  Kingdom  of  God  within  us        .         .         .         ,         .         .         .211 

Efforts  to  Annihilate  Self 213 

Interior  Attraction  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .216 

Madame  Guyon  and  the  Romish  Saints 218 

Confessors  and  Small-pox         .         .         .         .         .  .         .         .222 

The  Seven  Years  of  Famine    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .224 

Self-loss  in  God       . 227 

Mistakes  concerning  the  Nature  of  Spiritual  Influence       .         .         .     230 
Reformatory  Character  of  her  Mysticism  ......     233 

Activity  and  Persecution 234 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Quietist  Controversy 242 

Molinos 242 

Madame  Guyon  at  Paris .        .  245 

St.  Cyr 248 

Fenelon  and  Madame  Guyon 250 

Signs  of  Danger 252 

The  Conferences  at  Issy  .         .         , •  255 

The  Quietism  of  Fenelon 258 

His  Critical  Position 262 

Writes  the  Maxims  of  the  Saints      , 263 

Appeals  to  Rome 265 

Bossuet's  Account  of  Quietism  . 268 

Fenelon's  Reply 269 

Infallibility  submits  to  Louis    .         .         .         .         ,         .         .         .271 

Fenelon  submits  to  Infallibility 272 

The  Controversy  reviewed 273 

Mysticism  in  France  and  in  Germany 2  75 

CHAPTER  III 

Disinterested  Love 283 

Antoinette  Bourignon 280 

Peter  Poiret 287 

Madame  de  ICriidener 288 


Contents. 


IX 


BOOK  XL— MYSTICISM  IN  ENGLAND. 
CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Britain  poor  in  Mystics    .         .         ', 3°! 

George  Fox 303 

The  Early  Friends 30S 

Asceticism 309 

Doctrine  of  the  Universal  Light 309 

CHAPTER  IL 

Doctrine  of  Perceptible  Guidance 313 

The  English  Platonists .  315 

Henry  More  ;  Norris  of  Bemerton   . 315 

BOOK  XII.-  EMANUEL  SWEDENBORG. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Comprehensive  Character  of  his  Mysticism        .         .         .         ,  .321 

Doctrine  of  Correspondences    ........  323 

Stands  alone  among  the  Mystics       .......  326 

CHAPTER  IL 

His  Memorable  Relations           ........  329 

His  Heaven  and  Hell      .........  330 

Moderation  of  his  Doctrine  conceniing  Spiritual  Influence         .         .  331 

Delects  of  his  Doctrine  concerning  the  Work  of  Christ      .         .         .  332 

The  Church  of  the  New  Jerusalem 335 

BOOK  XIIL— CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER  L 


Mystical  Tendencies  of  uur  own  Time 
The  Faith-Philosophy 
Schleiermacher        .... 
The  Romantic  School 
Novalis  ...... 


Revival  of  antiquated  Error 

The  Modern  Mysticism  a  Repetition  of  the  Old 

The  Services  of  Mysticism       .... 


340 
341 
341 
343 
348 
350 
351 
352 


Contents. 


PAGH 


Its  Dangers ;         .        .         .        .  352 

Its  Lessons 356 

CHAPTER  XL 

Mysticism  fostered  by  the    Supposition   of    a    Separate    Religious 

Faculty    ...         . 361 

Reason,  how  far  amenable  to  Understanding   .         .         .        .        .  362 

Historic  Reality  not  opposed  to  Spirituality 365 

CHAPTER  III. 

A  Vision  of  Mystics 368 


BOOK    THE    SEVENTH 


PERSIAN  MYSTICISM    IN  THE  MIDDLE  AGE 


VOL.   II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Also,  there  is  in  God 
Which  being  seen  would  end  us  with  a  shock 
Of  pleasure.     It  may  be  that  we  should  die 
As  men  have  died  of  joy,  all  mortal  powers 
Summed  up  and  finished  in  a  single  taste 
Of  superhuman  bliss  ;  or,  it  may  be 
That  our  great  latent  love,  leaping  at  once 
A  thousand  years  in  stature — like  a  stone 
Dropped  to  the  central  fires,  and  at  a  touch 
Loosed  into  vapour — should  break  up  the  terms 
Of  separate  being,  and  as  a  swift  rack, 
Dissolving  into  heaven,  we  should  go  back 
To  God. 

DOBELL. 

'pHE  next  day  was  fine,  as  well  it  might  be  after  such  a 
■^  sunset ;  to  Hawksfell  all  the  party  went,  and  there  was 
no  reading.  But  on  the  following  (sunnier  yet,  if  possible) 
they  assembled  immediately  after  breakfast  in  the  summer- 
house,  Lowestoffe  not  excepted,  for  even  he  grew  inactive  with 
the  heat,  and  declared  himself  content  to  lie  on  the  grass  by 
the  hour.  Atherton  congratulated  his  hearers  that  they  would 
not  for  some  time  be  troubled  with  more  lucubrations  of  his — 
not  till  they  came,  in  due  course,  to  Madame  Guyon.  For 
Willoughby  was  to  take  up  Jacob  Behmen,  and  Gower,  who 
possessed  (as  the  fruit  of  an  artist's  tour)  some  acquaintance  with 
Spanish,  St.  Theresa.  Then,  unrolling  his  manuscript,  he  began. 

The  Sufis,  or  Mystical  Poetry  in  the  East  and  West. 

Among  all  the  religions  of  civiHzed  man,  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  one  more  unfriendly  to  the  growth  of  mysticism 
than  that  of  Mohammed.  Yet  in  no  religion  has  mysticism 
spread  more  widely  or  raised  its  head  with  greater  pride.  The 
cold  rationalism  of  the  Koran,  its  ritual  minutice,  its  formal 

L  2 


Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.        [b.  vii. 


self-righteousness,  its  prohibition  of  the  monastic  order, — all 
combined  to  warn  the  mystic  from  the  religious  domain  of  the 
Crescent.  But  stronger  than  Mohammedan  orthodoxy  or  the 
dying  commands  of  the  Prophet  were  the  wants  of  the  human 
heart  and  the  spirit  of  an  eastern  people.  The  generation 
which  laid  Mohammed  in  the  holy  earth  of  Medina  saw  mo- 
nastic institutions  arise  and  multiply  on  every  side.  Mystical 
interpretation  could  with  ease  elude  the  less  favourable  passages 
of  the  Koran,  and  turn  others  into  a  warrant.  With  a  single 
touch  of  this  dexterous  pencil,  the  mystic  could  make  the 
Prophet's  portraiture  all  he  desired,  and  turn  the  frown  into  a 
smile.  The  fatalism  of  the  creed  of  Islam  would  furnish  a 
natural  basis  for  the  holy  indifference  of  Quietism. 

Each  succeeding  century  of  the  Hegira  was  found  more  abun- 
dant than  the  last  in  a  class  of  men  who  revolted  against  the 
letter  in  the  name  of  the  spirit,  and  who  aspired  to  a  converse 
and  a  unity  with  God  such  as  the  Koran  deemed  unattainable 
on  this  side  heaven.  The  names  of  the  saints  and  martyrs,  the 
poets  and  philosophers,  of  mysticism,  are  among  the  brightest  in 
the  hagiography  and  the  literature  of  the  Mohammedan  world. 
The  achievements  of  the  former  class  are  adorned  with  legen- 
dary extravagances  such  as  those  with  which  the  Prophet  de- 
lighted to  invest  himself.  The  philosophy  of  the  latter  (whether 
sung  or  said)  was  not  a  little  aided,  in  its  contest  with  rigid 
orthodoxy,  by  the  Grecian  learning  of  that  Alexandria  which 
fell,  in  the  first  outbreak  of  Moslem  zeal,  before  the  hosts  of 
Amrou.  In  later  times  (under  the  names  of  Plato  and  of 
Aristotle)  mysticism  and  method  did  battle  with  each  other,  in 
the  East  as  in  the  West, — at  Shiraz,  at  Bagdad,  or  at  Cordova, 
even  as  in  the  University  of  Paris  or  the  academies  of  Italy. 

The  term  Sufism  appears  to  be  a  general  designation  for  the 
mystical  asceticism  of  the  Mohammedan  faith.  The  Sufis  cannot 
be  said  to  constitute  a  distinct  sect,  or  to  embrace  any  particu- 


c.  I.]  Snjisni.  5 

lar  philosophical  system.  Their  varieties  are  endless;  their  only 
common  characteristics  a  claim  of  some  sort  to  a  superhuman 
commerce  with  the  Supreme, — mystical  rapture,  mystical  union, 
mystical  identity,  or  theurgic  powers; — and  a  life  of  ascetic  ob- 
servance. The  name  is  given  to  mystics  of  every  shade,  from 
the  sage  to  the  quack,  from  poets  like  Saadi  or  philosophers 
like  Algazzali,  to  the  mendicant  dervise  or  the  crazy  fanatic. 

Persia  has  been  for  several  centuries  the  great  seat  of  Sufism. 
For  two  hundred  years  (during  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  of  our  era)  the  descendants  of  a  Sufi  occupied  the 
throne, — governing,  however,  as  may  be  supposed,  not  like 
mystics,  but  as  men  of  the  world.^  It  is  with  Sufism  as  exhi- 
bited principally  by  the  Sufi  poets  of  the  thirteenth  and  four- 
teenth centuries,  that  I  propose  now  to  occupy  your  attention. 

It  will  be  found  worth  our  while,  as  we  proceed,  to  compare 
the  mystical  poetry  of  the  East  and  West.  Oriental  mysticism 
has  become  famous  by  its  poets ;  and  into  poetry  it  has  thrown 
all  its  force  and  fire.  The  mysticism  of  the  West  lias  produced 
prophecies  and  interpretations  of  prophecy;  soliloquies,  ser- 
mons, and  treatises  of  divinity  ; — it  has  found  solace  in  auto- 
biography, and  breathed  out  its  sorrow  in  hymns  ;— it  has 
essayed,  in  earnest  prose,  to  revive  and  to  reform  the  sleeping 
Church  ; — but  it  has  never  elaborated  great  poems.  In  none  of 
the  languages  of  Europe  has  mysticism  achieved  the  success 
which  crowned  it  in  Persia,  and  prevailed  to  raise  and  rule  the 
poetic  culture  of  a  nation.  Yet  the  occidental  mysticism  has 
not  been  wholly  lacking  in  poets  of  its  own  order.  The  seven- 
teenth century  can  furnish  one,  and  the  nineteenth  anotlier, — 
Angelas  Silesius  and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

The  latest  research  has  succeeded  only  in  deciding  who 
Angelus  Silesius  was  tiot.  Some  Roman  Catliolic  priest  or  monk, 
assuming  tlie  name  of  Angelus,  did,  in  the  seventeenth  century, 

'  Malcolm's  Pcrsiii,  vol.  ii.,  p.  3S3. 


6  Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.        [u.  vii. 

send  forth  sundry  hymns  and  reUgious  poems, — among  odiers, 
one  most  euphuistically  entitled  The  Cherubic  Wanderer.  The 
author  of  this  book  has  been  generally  identified,  on  grounds 
altogether  inadequate,  with  a  contemporary  named  John  Schef- 
fler, — a  renegade  from  Jacob  Behmen  to  the  Pope.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  no  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  than  the  virulent 
fagotty-minded  pervert  Scheffler,  and  the  contemplative  pan- 
theistic Angelus — be  he  who  he  may.^ 

The  Cherubic  Wanderer  is  a  collection  of  religious  epigrams 
or  rhyming  sentences,  most  of  them  smart  and  pithy  enough  as 
to  expression,  not  a  few  as  destitute  of  sense  as  they  all  are  of 
poetry.  The  Wanderer  travelled  a  little  way  into  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  then,  lighting  upon  one  of  those  oblivious  arbours 
so  fatal  to  pilgrims,  sat  down,  and  slept  long.  A  few  years  ago 
some  Romanticist  litterateurs  of  Germany  woke  him  up,  and 
announced  to  the  world,  with  niuch  sounding  of  brass  and 
tinkling  of  cymbals,  that  they  had  resuscitated  a  paragon  of 
saintship  and  philosophy. 

The  Silesian's  book  reiterates  the  customary  utterances  of 
mysticism.  But  a  harsher  tone  is  audible,  and  the  doctrines 
Avith  which  we  are  familiar  appear  in  a  more  startling  and  para- 
doxical form.  The  more  dangerous  elements  are  intensified. 
Pantheism  is  latent  no  longer.    Angelus  loves  to  play  at  a  kind 

^  See  Schrader's  Angelus  Sileshis  him  with  it.  With  Scheiifler  the 
iind  seine  Mystik  ;Y\z\\&,\Z^-^.  Tliis  Church  is  everything.  In  the  Waii- 
autbor  shows,  that  the  supposition  dcrer  of  Angehis  the  word  scarcely 
identifying  Scheffler  with  Angekis  occurs.  The  former  hves  in  exter- 
(copied  too  r.adily  by  one  writer  from  nalisms  ;  the  latter  covets  escape  from 
another)  may  be  traced  up  to  a  source  them.  The  one  is  an  angry  bigot ; 
of  very  slight  authority.  Scheffler  re-  the  other,  for  a  Romanist,  serenely 
pudiated  mysticism  after  entering  the  latitudinarian.  Characteristics  so  op- 
Romish  communion.  Furious  polemi-  posite,  urges  Dr.  Schrader,  could  not 
cal  treatises  by  Scheffler,  and  senti-  e.\ist  in  the  same  man  at  the  same 
mental  religious    poems   by    Angelus  time. 

appeared  contemporaneously  during  a  The  epithet  '  C//«v/^/c' indicates  the 

considerable  interval.     Had  Scheffler  more    speculative     character   of    the 

published   anything    mystical    during  book  ;  as  contrasted,  in  the  language 

his  controversy,  his  Protestant  antago-  of  the  mystics,  with  the  devotion  of 

nists  would  not  have  failed  to  charge  feeling  and  passion — seraphic  love. 


c.  I.]  TJic  Cherubic  Wanderer.  7 

of  intellectual  seesaw  with  the  terms  Finite  and  Infinite,  and 
tlieir  subject  or  kindred  words.  Now  mounts  one  side,  now  the 
other,  of  the  restless  antithesis.  Each  factor  is  made  to  share 
with  its  rival  every  attribute  of  height  or  lowness.  His  favourite 
style  of  talking  may  run  as  follows  : — '  I  cannot  do  without 
God,  nor  He  without  me ;  He  is  as  small  as  I,  and  I  as  great 
as  He  : — let  time  be  to  thee  as  eternity,  and  eternity  as  time  ; 
the  All  as  nothing,  and  nothing  as  tlie  All ;  then  thou  hast 
solved  life's  problem,  and  art  one  with  God,  above  limit  and 
distinction."  We  matter-of-fact  folk  feel  irresistibly  inclined  to 
parody  such  an  oracle,  and  say, — '  Let  whole  and  part,  black 
and  white,  be  convertible  terms; — let  thy  head  be  to  thee  as  thy 
heels,  and  thy  heels  as  thy  head  \  and  thou  hast  transcended 
the  conditions  of  vulgar  men,  and  lapsed  to  Limbo  irretriev- 
ably.' Silesius,  as  a  good  churchman,  repudiates,  of  course, 
the  charge  of  pantheism.  He  declares  that  the  dissolution  in 
Deity  he  contemplates  does  not  necessitate  the  loss  of  per- 
sonality, or  confound  the  Maker  and  the  made.  His  distinc- 
tion is  distinguishable  '  as  water  is  in  water.'  He  appeals  to 
the  strong  language  he  hunts  out  from  Bernard,  Tauler,  and 
Ruysbroek.  But  the  cold-blooded  epigram  cannot  claim  the 
allowance  due  to  the  fervid  sermon  or  the  often  rhapsodical 
volume  of  devotion.  Extravagant  as  the  Sufi,  he  cannot  plead 
like  him  a  spiritual  intoxication.  Crystals  and  torrents  must 
have  separate  laws.  And  which,  moreover,  of  the  mystical 
masters  to  whom  Angelus  refers  us  would  have  indited  such 
presumptuous  doggrel  as  this  ? 

God  in  my  nature  is  involved, 

As  I  in  the  divine  ; 
I  help  to  make  his  being  up, 

As  much  as  he  does  mine. 

As  much  as  I  to  God  owes  God  to  ine 
His  blissfulness  and  self-sufficiency. 

I  am  as  rich  as  God,  no  grain  of  dust 

That  is  not  mine  too, — share  with  me  he  must. 


Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.         [b.  vn. 


More  than  his  love  unto  himself, 

God's  love  to  me  hath  been  ; 
If  more  than  self  I  too  love  him, 

We  twain  are  quits,  I  ween. 3 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  terse  and  happy  couplets 
and  quatrains  in  the  Wanderer,  which  express  the  better  spirit 
of  mysticism.  Angelas  insists  constantly  on  the  vanity  of  mere 
externals, — the  necessity  of  a  Christ  formed  within,  as  opposed 
to  a  dead,  unsanctifying  faith, — the  death  of  self-will,  as  the 
seat  of  all  sin, — the  reality  of  the  hell  or  heaven  already  wrought 
in  time  by  sin  or  holiness.  These  were  the  maxims  and  ejacu- 
lations which  religious  minds,  mystically  inclined,  found  so  edi- 
fying. The  arrogant  egotheism  of  some  passages  they  took  in 
another  sense,  or  deemed  the  sense  beyond  them.  Moreover, 
the  high-flown  devotion  affected  by  Rome  has  always  familiar- 
ized her  children  with  expressions  which  (as  Thomas  Fuller  has 
it)  *  do  knock  at  the  door  of  blasphemy,  though  not  always  with 
intent  to  enter  in  thereat.' 

The  second  representative  of  the  West,  who  must  assist 
towards  our  comparative  estimate  of  pantheistic  mysticism  in  its 
poetical  form,  is  Mr.  Emerson,  the  American  essayist.  Whether 
in  prose  or  verse  he  is  chief  singer  of  his  time  at  the  high  court 
of  Mysticism.  He  belongs  more  to  the  East  than  to  the  West 
— true  brother  of  those  Sufis  with  whose  doctrine  he  has  so 
much  in  common.  Luxuriant  in  fancy,  impulsive,  dogmatic, 
darkly  oracular,  he  does  not  reason.  His  majestic  monologue 
may  not  be  interrupted  by  a  question.  His  inspiration  dis- 
dains argument.  He  delights  to  lavish  his  varied  and  brilliant 
resources  upon  some  defiant  paradox — and  never  more  than 
when  that  paradox  is  engaged  in  behalf  of  an  optimism  ex- 
treme enough  to  provoke  another  Voltaire  to  write  anotlier 
Candide.  He  displays  in  its  perfection  the  fantastic  inco 
herence  of  the  'God-intoxicated'  man. 

^  Chcrubinischer  Wandcrsmann,  i.  loo,  g,  i8  ;  iJchrader,  p.  28. 


c.  I.J  Emerson.  g 

In  comparing  Emerson  with  the  Sufis,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
state  that  he  does  not  believe  in  INIohammed  and  receive  the 
Koran  in  a  manner  which  would  satisfy  an  orthodox  Mussul- 
man. Yet  he  does  so  (if  words  have  meaning)  much  after  the 
same  fashion  in  which  he  believes  in  Christ  and  receives  the 
Bible.  Mohammed  and  Jesus  are  both,  to  him,  extraordinary 
religious  geniuses — the  Bible  and  the  Koran  both  antiquated 
books.  He  looks  with  serene  indifference  on  all  the  forms  of 
positive  religion.  He  would  agree  perfectly  with  those  Sufis 
who  proclaimed  the  difference  between  the  Church  and  the 
Mosque  of  litde  moment.  The  distance  between  the  Crescent 
and  the  Cross  is,  with  him,  one  of  degree — their  dispute  rather 
a  question  of  individual  or  national  taste  than  a  controversy 
between  a  religion  with  evidence  and  a  rehgion  without. 

In  the  nineteenth  century,  and  in  America,  the  doctrine  of 
emanation  and  the  ascetic  practice  of  the  East  can  find  no  place. 
But  the  pantheism  of  Germany  is  less  elevated  than  that  of 
Persia,  in  proportion  as  it  is  more  developed.  The  tendency 
of  the  latter  is  to  assign  reality  only  to  God ;  the  tendency  of 
the  former  is  to  assign  reality  only  to  the  mind  of  man.  The 
Sufi  strove  to  lose  humanity  in  Deity;  Emerson  dissolves 
Deity  in  humanity.  The  orientals  are  nearer  to  theism,  and 
the  moderns  farther  from  it,  than  they  sometimes  seem.  That 
primal  Unity  which  the  Sufi,  like  the  Neo-Platonist,  posits  at 
the  summit  of  all  things,  to  ray  forth  the  world  of  Appearance, 
may  possibly  retain  some  vestige  of  personality.  But  the  Over- 
Soul  of  Emerson,  whose  organs  of  respiration  are  men  of  genius, 
can  acquire  personality  only  in  the  individual  man.  The  Per- 
sian aspired  to  reach  a  divinity  above  him  by  self-conquest:  the 
American  seeks  to  realize  a  divinity  within  him  by  self-will. 
Self-annihilation  is  the  watchword  of  the  one;  self  assertion  th-xt 
of  the  other. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Und  so  lansf  du  das  nicht  hast 

Dieses  :  Stirb  und  werde  ! 
Bist  du  niir  eia  triiber  Gast 

Auf  der  dunkeln  Erde.i 

Goethe. 

<T  ET  US  proceed,  then/ resumed  Atherton,  smoothing  Ins 
manuscript,  '  on  our  Persian  expedition.  Dr.  Tholuck, 
witli  his  German  translation,  shall  act  as  interpreter,  and  we 
may  pause  now  and  then  on  our  way  to  listen  to  the  deliver- 
ances of  the  two  men  of  vision  who  accompany  us  from  Breslau 
and  from  Boston.' 

The  first  century  of  the  Hegira  has  scarcely  expired  when  a 
mysticism,  strikingly  similar  to  that  of  Madame  Guyon,  is  seen 
to  arise  spontaneously  in  the  devout  ardours  of  a  female  saint 
named  Rabia."  There  is  the  same  straining  after  indifference 
and  self-abnegation — after  a  love  absolutely  disinterested— after 
a  devotion  beyond  language  and  above  means. 

By  the  sick-bed  of  Rabia  stood  two  holy  men.  One  of  them 
said,  '  The  prayers  of  that  man  are  not  sincere  who  refuses  to 
bear  the  chastening  strokes  of  the  Lord.'  The  other  went 
beyond  him,  saying,  '  He  is  not  sincere  who  does  not  rejoice 
in  them.'  Rabia,  detecting  something  of  self  in  that  very  joy, 
surpassed  them  both  as  she  added,  'He  is  not  sincere  who  doe? 
not,  beholding  his  Lord,  become  totally  unconscious  of  them.' 
The  Mohammedan  Lives  of  the  Saints  records  that,  on  another 
occasion,  when  questioned  concerning  the  cause  of  a  severe  ill- 

'  And  if  thy  heart  know  nouglit  of  -  Thokick,    Ssiifisiniis,    sivc    Thco- 

this— '  Die  that  thou  niayest  be  born  ;'  sophia  Persantm  panthcistica  (Berlin, 

then  walkest  thou  the  darksome  earth  1822),  pp.  51  -54. 
a  Eojoiu'ncr  forlorn. 


c.  2.]  kahia — Btistami.  1 1 

ness,  she  replied,  'I  suffered  myself  to  think  on  the  delights  of 
Paradise,  and  therefore  my  Lord  hath  punished  me.'  She  was 
heard  to  exclaim,  'What  is  the  Kaaba  to  me?  I  need  God 
only.'  She  declared  herself  the  spouse  of  Heaven,— described 
her  will  and  personality  as  lost  in  God.  When  asked  how  she 
bad  reached  this  state,  she  made  the  very  answer  we  have  heard 
a  German  mystic  render,  '  I  attained  it  when  everything  which 
I  had  found  I  lost  again  in  God.'  When  questioned  as  to  the 
mode,  she  replied,  'Thou,  Hassan,  hast  found  Him  by 
reason  and  through  means ;  I  immediately,  without  mode  or 

means.' 

The  seeds  of  Sufism  are  here.  This  mystical  element  was 
fostered  to  a  rapid  growth  through  succeeding  centuries,  in 
the  East  as  in  the  West,  by  the  natural  reaction  of  religious 
fervour  against  Mohammedan  polemics  and  Mohammedan 
scholasticism. 

In  the  ninth  century  of  our  era,  Sufism  appears  divided  be- 
tween two  distinguished  leaders,  Bustami  and  Juneid.  The 
former  was  notorious  chiefly  for  the  extravagance  of  his  mystical 
insanity.  The  men  of  genius  who  afterwards  made  the  name  of 
Sufism  honourable,  and  the  language  of  its  aspiration  classical, 
shrank  from  such  coarse  excess.  It  was  not  enough  for  Bustami 
to  declare  that  the  recognition  of  our  personal  existence  was  an 
idolatry,  the  worst  of  crimes.  It  was  not  enough  for  him  to 
maintain  that  when  man  adores  God,  God  adores  himself.  He 
claimed  such  an  absorption  in  his  pantheistic  deity  as  identi- 
fied him  with  all  the  power,  the  wisdom,  and  the  goodness  of 
the  universe.  He  would  say,  '  I  am  a  sea  without  bottom, 
without  beginning,  without  end.  I  am  the  throne  of  God,  the 
word  of  God.  I  am  Gabriel,  Michael,  Israfil ;  I  am  Abraham, 
Moses,  Jesus.' 

If  Epiphanius  is  to  be  believed,  the  Messalians  were  a  sect 
chargeable  with  the  very  same  folly.     If  asked,  he  says,  con- 


1 2  Pejsiaji  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.        [b.  vn. 

ceniing  a  patriarch,  a  prophet,  an  angel,  or  Christ,  they  would 
reply,  '  I  am  that  patriarch,  that  prophet,  that  angel ;  I  am 
Christ.' 

A  reference  to  Emerson's  Essay  on  History  renders  such 
professions  perfectly  credible.  Bustami  and  the  Messalians 
could  not  have  made  them  in  the  hteral,  but  (by  anticipation) 
in  the  Emersonian  sense.  They  believed,  with  him,  that  'there 
is  one  mind  common  to  all  individual  men.'  They  fmd  in  him 
their  interpreter,  when  he  says,  '  Who  hath  access  to  this  uni- 
versal mind  is  a  party  to  all  that  is  or  can  be  done,  for  this  is 
the  only  sovereign  agent.'  Emerson  couches  their  creed  in 
modern  rhymes,  as  he  sings  exultant, — 

I  am  owner  of  the  sphere, 

Of  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year, 

Of  Csesar's  hand  and  Plato's  brain, 

Of  Lord  Christ's  heart,  and  Shakspeare's  strain. 

In  the  spirit  of  the  same  philosophy,  Angelus  Silesius  hints 
at  the  possibility  of  such  an  empire.  He  reminds  his  readers 
that  there  is  no  greatness  which  makes  the  glory  of  the  past 
that  may  not  be  realized  by  themselves  in  the  present.  Thus 
he  asks — 

Dost  prize  alone  King  Solomon  as  wisest  of  the  wise  ? 
Thou  also  canst  be  Solomon,  and  all  his  wisdom  thine. ^ 

But  what  is  only  potential  with  him  is  claimed  as  actual  by 
mystical  brethren  bolder  yet  than  he. 

The  first  endeavour  of  the  Sufi  (as  of  so  many  Christian 
mystics)  is  to  achieve  that  simplifying,  purifying  process  which 
shall  remove  from  the  mind  everything  earthly  and  human — 
all  its  creaturely  accidents,  and  reduce  it  to  that  abstract  essence 
which  mirrors  Deity,  and  is  itself  ultimately  divine.  An  apo- 
logue in  the  Mesnevi  of  Jelaleddin  Rumi  (a  Sufi  poet  who  wrote 
in  the  first  half  of  our  thirteenth  century)  teaches  this  doctrine 
quite  in  the  oriental  manner. 

3  Tholuck,  Ssiifismiis,  p.  63.  Chcrnl.  Wand.,  ii.  iS , 


c.  2.]  Tlie  Mirror  of  the  Heart..  1 3 

The  Greeks  and  the  Chinese  dispute  before  a  certain  sultan 
as  to  which  of  the  two  nations  is  the  more  skilful  in  the  art 
of  decoration.  The  sultan  assigns  to  the  rival  painters  two 
structures,  facing  each  other,  on  which  they  shall  exercise  their 
best  ability,  and  determine  the  question  of  precedence  by  tlie 
issue : — 

The  Cliinese  ask  liim  for  a  thousand  colours, 

All  that  they  ask  he  gives  right  royally  ; 

And  every  morning  from  his  treasure-house 

A  hundred  sorts  are  largely  dealt  them  out. 

The  Greeks  despise  all  colour  as  a  st.ain — 

Effacing  every  hue  with  ricest  care. 

Brighter  and  brighter  shines  their  ])olished  front, 

More  dazzling,  soon,  than  gleams  the  floor  of  heaven. 

This  hueless  sheen  is  worth  a  thousand  dyes, — 

T  liis  is  the  moon — they  but  her  cloudy  veil ; 

All  that  the  cloud  is  bright  or  golden  with 

Is  but  the  lending  of  the  moon  or  sun. 

And  now,  at  length,  are  China's  artist;;  ready. 

The  cymbals  clang — the  sultan  hastens  thither, 

And  sees  enrapt  the  glorious  gorgeousness — 

Smit  nigh  to  swooning  by  those  beamy  splendours. — 

1  hen,  to  the  Grecian  palace  opposite. 

Just  as  the  Greeks  have  put  their  curtain  back, 

Down  glides  a  sunbeam  through  the  rifted  clouds, 

And,  lo,  the  colours  of  that  rainbow  house 

Shine,  alt  reflected  on  those  glassy  w.alls 

That  face  them,  rivalling:  the  sun  hath  painted 

With  lovelier  blending,  on  that  stony  mirror 

The  coloin-s  spread  by  man  so  artfully. 

Know  then,  O  friend  !  such  Greeks  the  .Sufis  are, 

Owning  nor  book  nor  master  ;  and  on  earth 

Having  one  sole  and  simple  task, — to  make 

Their  hearts  a  stainless  mirror  for  their  God. 

Is  thy  heart  clear  and  argent  as  the  moon? 

Then  imaged  there  may  rest,  in  numerous, 

The  forms  and  hues  of  heaven."* 

So,  too,  says  Angelus  Silesius, — 

Away  with  accidents  and  false  appearance. 
Thou  must  be  essence  all,  and  colourless. 

And  again, — 

Man  !  wouldst  thou  look  on  God,  in  heaven  or  while  yet  iiere, 
Thy  heart  must  first  of  all  become  a  mirror  clear.5 


*  Tlioluck,    Bluihcnsavunlun^    aus   der  Morgcnla7idischcii   My^tik   (Hrilin, 
t825),  p.  114. 

5  Cherub.  Wand.,  i.  274  ;  v.  8r 


14  Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.        [c.  vn. 


Jelaleddin  Rumi  describes  the  emancipation  of  the  soul  from 
intellectual  distinctions — the  laws  of  finite  thought,  the  fluctua- 
tions of  hope  and  fear,  the  consciousness  of  personality, — under 
the  image  of  night.  This  has  been  the  favourite  and  appropriate 
symbol  of  all  the  family  of  mystics,  from  Dionysius,  with  his 
'  Divine  Darkness,'  to  John  of  the  Cross,  in  his  De  Node  Oh- 
scurd,  and  on  to  Novalis,  in  his  Hyiniien  an  der  Nacht.  In  the 
following  vigorous  passage,  Night  is  equivalent  to  the  state  of 
self-abandonment  and  self-transcendence  : — 

Every  night  God  frees  the  host  of  spirits — 

Makes  them  clear  as  tablets  smooth  and  spotless— 

Frees  them  every  night  from  fleshy  prison. 

Then  the  soul  is  neither  slave  nor  master, 

Nothing  knows  the  bondman  of  his  bondage, 

Nothing  knows  the  lord  of  all  his  lordship, 

Gone  from  such  a  night  is  eating  sorrow, 

Gone  the  thoughts  that  question  good  and  evil. 

Then,  without  distraction  or  division, 

In  the  One  the  spirit  sinks  and  slumbers. 

Silesius  has  the  same  thought,  cold  and  dry,  after  the  poetic 
Persian,  yet  in  words  that  would  furnish  no  inapt  motto  to 
express  in  a  sentence  this  species  of  mysticism : — 

Ne'er  sees  man  in  this  life,  the  Light  above  all  light, 
As  when  he  yields  him  up  to  darkness  and  to  night** 

The  ascetic  Sufi  bids  the  mystical  aspirant  close  the  senses 

against  every  external  impression — for   the   worlds  of  sense 

and  of  contemplation  reciprocally  exclude  each  other.     We 

have  seen  how  the  Hindoos  and  the  Hesychasts  endeavoured 

literally  to  obey  this  counsel,  reiterated  so  often  by  so  many 

mystagogues : — 

Put  wool  within  the  ear  of  flesh,  for  that 
Makes  deaf  tlie  inner  hearing,  as  with  wool ; 
If  that  can  hear,  the  spirit's  ear  is  deaf. 
Let  sense  make  blind  no  more  the  spirit's  eye. 
Be  without  ear,  without  a  sense  or  thought. 
Hark  only  to  the  voice,  '  Home,  wanderer,  home  !' 

It  is  quite  in  accordance  with  such  precepts  that  the  judging 

6  Bliilhen.,  p.  6i.     Cherub.  Wand.,  iv.  23. 


c.  2-1  Letter  and  Spirit.  1 5 

faculty  sliould  be  abandoned  by  the  Sufi  for  the  intuitive,  and 
the  understanding  sacrificed  to  the  feeling.  According  to  the 
Koran,  Mohammed  once  soared  heavenwards,  to  such  a  height 
that  Gabriel  could  not  overtake  him,  and  far  off  below,  appeared 
to  the  Prophet  no  larger  than  a  sparrow.  Jelaleddin  compares 
the  heart,  the  divine  principle  in  man  (the  spirit,  in  his  psycho- 
logy), to  Mohammed,  and  the  understanding  to  Gabriel.  Names 
and  words,  he  says,  are  but  '  nets  and  shackles.'  With  justice, 
in  one  sense,  he  bids  men  pass  from  the  sign  to  the  thing 
signified,  and  asks, — 

Didst  ever  pluck  a  rose  from  R  and  O  and  S  ? 

Names  thou  mayst  know  :  go,  seek  the  truth  they  name  ; 

Search  not  the  brook,  but  heaven,  to  find  the  moon. 

The  senses  and  the  lower  powers,  nourished  hy  forms,  belong 
to  earth,  and  constitute  the  mere  foster-mother  of  our  nature. 
The  intuitive  faculty  is  a  ray  of  Deity,  and  beholds  Essence. 
The  soul  which  follows  its  divine  parent  is  therefore  a  wonder, 
and  often  a  scandal  to  that  which  recognises  only  the  earthly. 
Jelaleddin  compares  the  rapturous  plunge  of  the  soul  into  its 
divine  and  native  element  to  the  hastening  of  the  ducklings 
into  the  water,  to  the  terror  of  the  hen  that  hatched  them.'' 

While  exulting  in  a  devotion  above  all  means  and  modes,  we 
find  the  Sufi  (in  nearly  every  stage  of  his  ascension  save  the 
last)  yielding  implicit  obedience  to  some  human  guide  of  his 
own  choice.  The  Persian  Pir  was  to  him  what  the  Director  was 
to  the  Quietist  or  semi-Quietist  of  France;  what  the  experienced 
Friend  of  God  was  to  the  mystic  of  Cologne  or  Strasburg;  what 
Nicholas  of  Basle  was  so  long  to  Tauler.  That  a  voluntary 
submission  to  such  authority  was  yielded  is  certain.  Yet  w^e 
find  scarcely  an  allusion  to  these  spiritual  guides  among  the 
diief  bards  of  .Sufism.  Each  singer  claims  or  seeks  a  know- 
ledge of  God  which  is  immediate,  and  beyond  the  need  of  at 

7  BlUthen.,  pp.  64,  71,  113,  156. 


1 6  Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.       ["•  vn. 

least  the  orthodox  and  customary  aids  and  methods.  Thus 
Rumi  says — 

He  needs  a  guide  no  lonq'er  who  hath  found 
The  way  already  Jeadint;  to  the  Friend. 
Who  stands  already  on  heaven's  topmost  dome 
Needs  not  to  search  for  ladders.     He  that  lies, 
Folded  in  favour  on  the  sultan's  breast, 
Needs  not  the  letter  or  the  messenger. 

So  Emerson, — ■ 

'  The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine  spirit  are  so  pure  that 

it  is  profane  to  seek  to  interpose  helps Whenever  a 

mind  is  simple,  and  receives  a  divine  wisdom,  then  old  things 
pass  away, — means,  teachers,  texts,  temples,  fall ;  it  lives  now 
and  absorbs  past  and  future  into  the  present  hour,'  * 

Hence,  in  both  cases,  the  indifference  before  noticed  to  all 
the  various  forms  of  positive  religion.  The  Persian  describes  all 
religions  as  the  same  liquor  in  different  glasses — all  are  poured 
by  God  into  one  mighty  beaker. 

The  self-abandonment  and  self-annihilation  of  the  Sufis  rest 
on  the  basis  of  their  pantheism.  Personal  existence  is  with 
them  the  great  illusion  of  this  world  of  appearance — to  cling  to 
it  is  to  be  blind  and  guilty.  Mahmud  (a  Sufi  of  the  fourteenth 
century)  says,  in  the  GidscJwi  Ras, — 

All  sects  but  multiply  the  I  and  Thou  ; 

This  I  and  Thou  belong  to  partial  being  ; 

When  I  and  Thou  and  several  being  vanish, 

Then  Mosque  and  Church  shall  bind  thee  never  more. 

Our  individual  life  is  but  a  phantom  : 

Make  clear  thine  eye,  and  see  ReaHty  1 

Again,  (though  here  the  sense  may  be  moral  rather  than 
philosophic,  and  selfishness,  not  personality,  abjured) — 

Go,  soul !  with  Moses  to  the  wilderness, 
And  hear  with  him  that  grand  '  I  am  the  Lord  1' 
While,  like  a  mountain  that  shuts  out  the  sun, 
'I'hine  /  lifts  up  its  head,  thou  shalt  not  see  Me. 
The  lightning  strikes  the  mountain  into  ruins, 
And  o'er  the  levelled  dust  the  glory  leaps  ! 


8  DlUthcn.,  p.  167.       Emerson's  Essays  (1848),  p.  35. 


c.  2.]  Sclf-abandoninciit.  ' \'j 

JclalcdUin  says  of  the  Sufi  in  his  self-abnegation, — 

His  love  of  God  dotli,  like  a  flame  of  hell, 
Even  in  a  moment  swallow  love  of  self. 

]\Ialimud,  to  express  the  same  thought,  employs  the  image 
used  by  Thomas  a  Kempis  : — 

The  path  from  Me  to  God  is  truly  found. 

When  pure  that  Me  from  Self  as  clearest  flame  from  smoke. 

Angelus  Siiesius  bids  men  lose,  in  utter  Nihilism,  all  sense 
of  any   existence   separate   from    the    Divine  Substance — the 

Absolute  : — 

While  aught  thou  art  or  know'st  or  lov'st  or  hast, 
Not  yet,  believe  me,  is  thy  burden  gone. 

Wh.o  is  as  though  he  were  not — ne'er  had  been — 
That  man,  oh  joy  !  is  made  God  absolute. 

Self  is  surpassed  by  self-annihilation  ; 

The  nearer  nothing,  so  much  more  divine. 9 

Thus  individuality  must  be  ignored  to  the  utmost ;  by 
mystical  death  we  begin  to  live;  and  in  this  perverted 
sense  he  that  loseth  his  life  shall  find  it.  Hence,  by  a  natural 
consequence,  the  straining  after  a  sublime  apathy  almost  as 
senseless  as  the  last  abstraction  of  the  Buddhist.  The  abso- 
lutely disinterested  love,  to  which  the  Sufi  aspires,  assumes, 
however,  an  aspect  of  grandeur  as  opposed  to  the  sensuous 
hopes  and  fears  of  Mohammed's  heaven  and  hell.  Rumi  thus 
describes  the  blessedness  of  those  whose  will  is  lost  in  the  will 
of  God  : — 

They  deem  it  cr'me  to  flee  from  Destiny, 

For  Destiny  to  ihem  brinys  only  sweetness. 

Welcome  is  all  that  ever  can  befal  them,  • 

For  were  it  fire  it  turns  to  living  waters. 

Tlie  poison  melts  to  sugar  on  their  lip  ; 

The  mire  they  tread  is  lustrous  diamond. 

And  weal  and  woe  alike,  whatever  comes. 

'I  hey  and  their  kingdom  lie  in  God's  divincness. 

To  pray,  'O  I^ord,  turn  back  this  trouble  from  me,' 

They  count  an  insult  to  tlic  hand  that  sent  it. 


9  Diiil/icii.,  pp.  204-2C6.     Chcruh.   Wand.,  i.  2-|,  92,  140. 
VOL.  II.  C 


1 8  Persian  Mysticism  hi  the  Middle  Age.        [b.  vu.. 

Faithful  they  are,  but  not  for  Paradise  ; 
God's  will  the  only  crowning  of  tiicir  faith  : 
And  not  for  seething  hell,  flee  they  from  sin, 
But  that  their  will  must  serve  the  Will  Divine. 
It  is  not  struggle,  'tis  not  discipline, 
\\'ins  tlieni  a  will  so  restful  and  so  blest  ; — 
It  is  that  God  from  his  heart-fountain  ever 
Fills  up  their  jubilant  souls. 

So,  again,  Angelas  Silesius,  sometimes  pushing  his  negation 
to  unconscious  caricature  : — 

True  hero  he  that  would  as  readily 

Be  left  without  God  as  enjoy  him  near.       ' 

Self-loss  finds  God— to  let  God  also  go, 
That  is  the  real,  most  rare  abandonment. 

Man!  whilst  thou  thankest  God  for  this  or  that, 
Yet  art  thou  slave  to  finite  feebleness. 

Not  fully  God's  is  he  who  cannot  live, 
Even  in  hell,  and  find  in  hell  no  hell. 

Nought  so  divine  as  to  let  nothing  move  thee, 
Here  or  hereafter  (could 'st  thou  only  reach  it). 

■Who  loves  without  emotion,  and  without  knowledge  knows, 
Of  him  full  fitly  say  we — he  is  more  God  than  man. 

Compare  Emerson,  discoursing  of  Intuition  and  the  height 
to  v/hich  it  raises  men  : — 

'Fear  and  hope  are  aUke  beneath  it.  It  asks  nothing 
There  is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  We  are  then  in  vision. 
There  is  nothing  that  can  be  called  gratitude  nor  properly  joy. 
The  soul  is  raised  over  passion,'  &c.  So,  again  :  *  Prayer  as  a 
means  to  effect  a  private  end  is  theft  and  meanness.  It 
supposes  dualism  in  nature  and  consciousness.  As  soon  as 
the  man  is  ftt  one  with  God  he  will  not  beg.  He  will  then  see 
prayer  in  all  action.'^" 

This  elevation  above  petition  and  above  desire,  towards 
■which  many  a  Sufi  toiled,  watching,  fasting,  solitary,  through 
the  'seven  valleys'  of  mystic  discipline,  is  cheaply  accomplished 

10  Dliilhci!.,\->\-).  iSo,  iSi.  Cherub.  IVaiid.,  v.  367;  ii.  92;  i.  91,  39;  ii. 
152,  59.  Emerson,  pp.  37,  42. 


c.  2.]  Time  and  Space  transcended.  I9 

now-a-days  by  mere  nonchalance,  and  is  hit  off  by  a  flourish  of 
the  pen.  It  is  the  easy  boast  of  any  one  who  finds  prayer  dis- 
tasteful and  scoffs  at  psalm-singing — who  chooses  to  dub  his 
money-getting  with  the  title  of  worship,  and  fancies  that  tc 
follow  instinct  is  to  follow  God.  The  most  painful  self-negation 
and  the  most  facile  self-indulgence  meet  at  the  same  point  and 
claim  the  same  pre-eminence. 

The  eastern  mystic  ignores  humanity  to  attain  divinity.  The 
ascent  and  the  descent  are  proportionate,  and  the  privileges  of 
nothingness  are  infinite.  We  must  accompany  the  Sufi  to  his 
highest  point  of  deification,  and  in  that  transcendental  region 
leave  him.  His  escape  from  the  finite  limitations  of  time  and 
space  is  thus  described, — 

On  earth  thou  scest  his  outward,  but  his  spirit 
Makes  heaven  its  tent  and  all  infinity. 
Space  and  Duration  boundless  do  him  service, 
As  Eden's  rivers  dwell  and  serve  in  Eden. 

Again,  Said,  the  servant,  thus  recounts  one  morning  to 
Alohammed  the  ecstasy  he  has  enjoyed  : — 

My  tongue  clave  fever-dry,  my  blood  ran  fire, 

My  niglits  were  sleepless  with  consuming  love, 

Till  night  and  day  sped  past — as  flies  a  lance 

Grazing  a  buckler's  rim  ;  a  hundred  faiths 

Seemed  then  as  one  ;  a  liundred  thousand  years 

No  longer  than  a  moment.     In  that  hour 

All  past  eternity  and  all  to  come 

Was  gathered  up  in  one  stupendous  Now, — 

Let  understanding  marvel  as  it  may. 

Where  men  see  clouds,  on  the  ninth  heaven  I  gaze, 

And  sec  the  throne  of  God.     All  heaven  and  hell 

Are  bare  to  me  and  all  men's  destinies, 

The  heavens  and  earth,  they  vanish  at  my  glance  : 

The  dead  rise  at  my  look.     I  tear  the  veil 

From  all  the  worlds,  and  in  the  hall  of  heaven 

I  set  me  central,  radiant  as  the  sun. 

Then  spake  the  Prophet  : — '  Friend,  thy  steed  is  warm; 

Spur  him  no  more.     The  mirror  in  thy  breast 

Did  slip  its  fleshly  case,  now  put  it  up — 

Hide  it  once  more,  or  thou  wilt  come  to  harm.' 

This  magniloquence  of  Said's  is  but  the  vehement  poetic 
expression  for  the  *  absolute  intuition'  of  modern  Germany — 

c  2 


20  Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.        [n.  vn. 

that  identity  of  subject  and  object  in  which  all  limitations  and 
distinctions  vanish,  and  are  absorbed  in  an  indescribable  tran- 
scendental intoxication.  If  the  principle  be  true  at  all,  its 
most  lofty  and  unqualified  utterance  must  be  the  best,  and 
what  seems  to  common-sense  the  thorough-going  madness  of 
the  fiery  Persian  is  preferable  to  the  colder  and  less  consistent 
language  of  the  modern  Teutonic  mysticism.  Quite  in  the 
spirit  of  the  foregoing  extracts,  Emerson  laments  that  we  do 
not  oftener  realize  this  identity,  and  transcend  time  and  space 
as  we  ought. — 

'  We  live  in  succession,  in  division,  in  parts,  in  particles. 
Meantime  within  man  is  the  soul  of  the  whole,  the  wise  silence, 
the  universal  beauty,  to  which  every  part  and  ])article  is  equally 
related, — the  eternal  one.  And  this  deep  power  in  which  we 
exist,  and  whose  beatitude  is  all  accessible  to  us,  is  not  only 
self-sufficing  and  perfect  every  hour,  but  the  act  of  seeing  and 
the  thing  seen,  the  seer  and  the  spectacle,  the  subject  and  the 
object,  are  one.'  And  again  : — '  Time  and  space  are  but  inverse 
measures  of  the  force  of  the  soul.  A  man  is  capable  of  abolish- 
ing them  both.     The  spirit  sports  with  time — 

'  Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour 
Or  stretch  an  hour  to  eternity.' 

So  Angelus  Silesius  : — 

Rise  above  Space  and  Time,  and  thou  canst  be 
At  any  moment  in  Eternity." 

The  following  passage  from  Jelaleddin  exhibits  the  kind  of 
identity  with  God  claimed  by  the  iiiore  extravagant  devotees  of 
Sufism  : — 

Are  we  fools,  we're  God's  captivity  ; 
Are  we  wise,  we  are  his  promenade  ; 
Are  we  sleeping,  we  are  drunk  with  God  ; 
Are  we  waking,  then  we  are  his  heralds  ; 
Are  we  weeping,  then  his  clouds  of  wrath  ; 
Are  we  laughing,  flashes  of  his  love. 


'1  BlUthen.,  pp.  85,  116.    Emerson,      Com-p^re  Richard  0/  Si.  Victor,  cited 
pp.  14X,  143.     Cherub.  Wand.,  i.  12.        above,  vol.  i.,  p.  172,  Note  to  p.  163, 


o.  2.]  Incorporation  into  tJie  Deity.  2i 

Some  among  them  carried  their  presumption  to  a  practical 
extreme  which  did  away  with  all  distinction  between  good  and 
evil.  They  declared  the  sins  of  the  Sufi  dearer  to  God  than 
the  obedience  of  other  men,  and  his  impiety  more  acceptable 
than  their  faith  .'^ 

Two  extracts  more  will  suffice  to  show  the  mode  in  which 
this  pantheistic  mysticism  confounds,  at  its  acme,  the  finite  and 
the  infinite.  They  are  from  Feridoddin  Attar,  who  died  in  the 
second  or  third  decade  of  the  fourteenth  century. — 

Man,  what  thou  art  is  liidden  from  thyself. 

Know  St  not  that  morning,  mid-day,  and  the  eve, 

All  are  within  thee  ?    The  ninth  heaven  art  thou  ; 

And  from  the  spheres  into  tiiis  roar  of  time 

Didst  fall  erewhile.     Thou  art  the  brush  tliat  painted 

The  hues  of  all  this  world — the  light  of  life. 

That  rayed  its  glory  on  the  nothingness. 

Joy  !  joy  !   I  triumph  !    Now  no  more  I  know 
Myself  as  simply  me,  I  burn  with  love 
Unto  myself  and  bury  me  in  love. 
The  Centre  is  within  me,  and  its  wonder 
Lies  as  a  circle  everywhere  about  me. 
Joy  !  joy  !  no  mortal  thought  can  fathom  me. 
I  am  the  merchant  and  the  pearl  at  once. 
Lo,  time  and  space  lie  crouching  at  my  feet. 
Joy  !  joy  !  when  I  would  revel  in  a  rapture, 
I  plunge  into  myself  and  all  things  know. 

The  poet  then  introduces  Allah,  as  saying  that  he  had  cast 
Attar  into  a  trance,  and  withdrawn  him  into  his  own  essence, 
so  that  the  words  he  uttered  were  the  words  of  God." 

1-  Bliithai.,  pp.  82,  84. — The  truth,  to  is  the  abuse,  is  well  put  by 
of  which  the  licentious  doctrine  alluded       Angelus, — 

'  Dearer  to  God  the  good  man's  very  sleep 
Than  prayers  and  psalms  of  sinners  all  night  long." — (v.  334.) 

'•'  Bliilhcu.,    pp.    266,    260. — Xever  there  somewhat   similar   imagery  for 

docs  this  soaring  idealism  become  so  the  same  thought.     What  is  with  him 

definite  and  apprehensible  as   when  it  a  dry  skeleton  acquires  flesh  and  blood 

speaks  with  the   '  large  utterance  '  of  among  the  Orientals, 
the    Sufis.       Angelus   has    here   and 

■  Sit  in  the  centre,  and  thou  sccst  at  once 
What  is,  what  was  ;  all  liere  and  all  in  heaven. 

*  Is  my  will  dead ?    Then  what  I  will  God  must, 
And  I  prescribe  his  pattern  and  his  end. 

'  I  must  b2  sun  myself,  and  v>ith  my  beams 
Paint  all  the  hueless  ocean  of  the  Godhead,' — (ii.  183  ;  i.  98,  I15.) 


22  Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.       [b.  vn. 


Both  with  Emerson  and  Angekis,  he  who  truly  apprehends 
God  becomes  a  part  of  the  divine  nature, — is  a  son,  a  god  in 
God,  according  to  the  latter ;  and  according  to  the  former, 
grows  into  an  organ  of  the  Universal  Soul.  This  notion  of 
identity  Emerson  seems  to  arrive  at  from  the  human,  Angelus 
from  the  divine  side.  The  salvation  of  man  is  reduced  with 
the  German,  very  much  to  a  process  of  divine  development. 
With  the  American,  every  elevated  thought  merges  man  for  a. 
time  in  the  Oversoul.  The  idealism  of  Emerson  is  more  sub- 
ective,  his  pantheism  more  complete  and  consequent.  Angelus 
is  bold  on  the  strength  of  a  theory  of  redemption  which  makes 
man  necessary  to  God.  Emerson  is  bolder  yet,  on  his  own 
account,  for  he  makes  his  own  God.  This  he  does  when  he 
adores  his  own  ideal,  and,  expanding  Self  to  Universality,  falls 
down  and  worships. 

Hear  him  describe  this  transcendental  devotion  : — 

*  The  simplest  person,  who  in  his  integrity  worships  God, 
becomes  God;  yet  for  ever  and  ever  the  influx  of  this  better  and 
universal  self  is  new  and  unsearchable.'  Again  :  '  I,  the  imper- 
fect, adore  my  own  Perfect.  I  am  somehow  receptive  of  the 
great  soul,  and  thereby  I  do  overlook  the  sun  and  the  stars, 
and  feel  them  to  be  but  the  fair  accidents  and  effects  which 
change  and  pass.'  So,  speaking  of  the  contemplation  of 
Nature  : — '  I  become  a  transparent  eyeball.  I  am  nothing.  I 
see  all.  The  currents  of  the  Universal  Being  circulate  through 
me ;  I  am  part  or  particle  of  God,'  &c. 

Angelus  says,  in  virtue  of  his  ideal  sonship, — 

I  am  as  great  as  God,  and  he  as  small  as  I  ; 
He  cannot  me  surpass,  or  I  beneath  him  lie. 

God  cannot,  without  me,  endure  a  moment's  space, 
Were  I  to  be  destroyed,  he  must  give  up  the  ghost. 

Nought  seemeth  high  to  me,  I  am  the  highest  thing  ; 
Because  e'en  God  himself  is  poor  deprived  of  me.'^ 


<  Emerson,  pp.  154,    156,  196.     Cherub.  Wand.,  i.  10,  8,204. — •'Angelus  has 


c.  2.]         Emanation — Incarnation — Inspiration.  23 

The  central  idea  of  the  Persian  mysticism  is  Emanation. 
The  soul  is  to  escape  from  the  manifold  to  the  One.  Its  ten- 
dency (in  proportion  as  its  votary  believes  that  return  accom- 
plished) is  to  confound  man  with  the  Father.  The  leading 
principle  in  the  mysticism  of  Eckart  and  Angelus  Silesius  is 
Incarnation.  Angelus  is  never  weary  of  reiterating  the  doctrine 
that  God  became  man  in  order  that  man  might  become  God. 
He  does  not  labour,  like  the  orientals,  to  attain  deification 
by  ascetic  efforts  of  his  own.  He  has  a  kind  of  Mediator. 
He  seems  to  believe  that  through  Christ,  in  some  way,  every 
man  is  a  divine  Son  of  God,  if  he  will  only  think  so.  All  he 
has  to  do  is  to  realize  this  sonship;  then  he  becomes,  by  Grace,^ 
all  that  the  Son  of  God  is  by  Nature.  The  obvious  result  of 
this  mysticism  is  to  identify  man  with  the  Son. 

In  that  order  of  modern  mysticism  represented  by  Emerson,  | 
the  central  doctrine  is  Inspiration.  In  the  creative  efforts  of  1 
the  poet,  in  the  generalizations  of  the  philosopher,  the  man  of 
genius  speaks  as  he  is  moved  by  the  Oversoul.  An  influx  of 
the  universal  spirit  floods  his  being  and  carries  him  beyond 
himself.  In  intuition  the  finite  Ego  is  identified  with  the 
absolute  Ego.  Humanity  is  a  divine  evolution,  and  each  true 
man  (to  use  Emerson's  apt  illustration) — a  faqadc  of  Deity. 
Even  Angelus  would  have  acknowledged  that  it  was  in  some 
sort  through  Christ  that  his  boastful  sonship  became  possible. 
But  the  believer  in  the  Oversoul  will  admit  no  such  medium, 
and   owns   a  debt   to   Christ   much   as   he   owns  a  debt  to 

various  modes  of  expressing  tlie  way  in  which  God  realizes  his  nature  in  th'i 
salvation  of  men. 

'  I  bear  God's  image.     Would  he  see  himself? 
He  only  can  in  me,  or  such  as  I. 

'  Meekness  is  velvet  whereon  God  takes  rest  :  r 

Art  meek,  O  man? — God  owes  to  thee  his  pillow. 

•  I  see  in  God  both  God  and  man, 
He  man  and  God  in  me  ; 
I  quench  his  thirst,  and  he,  in  turn, 
Helps  my  necessity.' — (i.  105,  214,  224.) 


24  Persian  Mysticism  in  the  Middle  Age.        [d.  vn. 

Shakspeare.  Mysticism  of  this  order  usurps  the  office  of  tlie 
Holy  Ghost,  and  directly  identifies  the  spirit  of  man  with  the 
Spirit  of  God. 

Mysticiim  has  always  been  accustomed  to  express  the  trans- 
ports of  its  divine  passion  by  metaphors  borrowed  from  the 
amorous  phraseology  of  earth.  It  has  done  this  with  every 
variety  of  taste,  from  the  grossness  of  some  of  the  most  eminent 
Romanist  saints,  to  the  Jpeautiful  Platonism  of  Spenser's  Hymns 
of  '  Heavenly  Love '  and  '  Heavenly  Beautie.'  But  nowhere 
has  metaphor  branched  so  luxuriantly  into  allegory  as  in  the 
East,  and  nowhere  in  the  East  with  such  subtilty  and  such 
freedom  as  among  the  Persian  mystics.  The  admiring  country- 
men of  Hafiz,  Saadi,  and  Jami,  interpret  mystically  almost 
everything  they  wrote.  They  underlay  these  poems  every- 
where with  a  system  of  correspondence  whose  ingenuity  would 
have  done  no  discredit  to  Swedenborg  himself.  Sir  William 
Jones  furnishes  some  specimens  of  a  sort  of  mystical  glossary, 
by  aid  whereof  their  drinking  songs  may  be  read  as  psalms, 
and  their  amatory  effusions  transformed  into  hymns  full  of 
edification  for  the  faithful."  Never,  since  the  days  of  Plotinus, 
was  a  deity  imagined  more  abstract  than  the  Unity  toward 
which  the  Sufi  aspires.  Yet  never  was  religious  language  more 
florid  and  more  sensuous.  According  to  the  system  alluded  to, 
wine  is  equivalent  to  devotion  ;  the  tavern  is  an  oratory;  kisses 
and  embraces,  the  raptures  of  piety;  while  wantonness,  drunken- 
ness, and  merriment,  are  religious  ardour  and  abstraction  from 
all  terrestrial  thoughts. 

The  following  passage  from  Mahmud's  Gidschcu  Ras  may 
suffice  as  a  aoecimen  of  these  devout  Bacchanalia.  It  has  the 
advantage  of  exhibiting  the  key  in  the  lock  : — 

Unovv'st  thou  wlio  the  Host  may  be  who  pours  the  spirit's  wine 
Knovv'st  thou  what  his  Hquor  is  whose  taste  is  so  divine  ? 


'•'   Works,  vol.  iv.,  On  the  Mystical  Poetry  of  the  Persian?  and  Hindoos, 


A  Spiritual  Drinking'  Song. 


The  Host  is  thy  Beloved  One — the  wine  annihilation, 

And  in  tiie  fiery  draught  thy  soul  drinks  in  illumination. 

Up,  soul  !  and'  driniv  with  burning  lip  the  wine  cf  ecstasy, 

The  drop  should  haste  to  lose  itself  in  His  unbounded  sea. 

At  such  a  draught  mere  intellect  swims  wildcred  and  grows  wild  ; 

Love  puts  the  slave-ring  in  his  ear  and  makes  the  rebel  mild. 

Our  Friend  holds  out  the  royal  wine  and  bids  us  drink  it  up  ; 

The  whole  world  is  a  drinking-house  and  everything  a  cup. 

Drunken  even  Wisdom  lies — ail  in  revel  sunken  ; 

Drunken  are  tlie  earth  and  heaven  ;  all  the  angels  drunken. 

Giddy  is  the  very  sky,  round  so  often  hasting, 

Up  and  down  it  staggers  wide,  with  but  a  single  tasting. 

Sucli  the  wine  of  miglit  they  drink  in  blest  carouse  above. 

So  the  angels  higher  lift  their  tlaming  height  of  love. 

Now  and  then  the  dregs  they  fling  earthward  in  their  quaffing, 

And  wheic'er  a  drop  alights,  lo,  an  Eden  laughing  i  '■» 


W  Bliithen.,  p.  21SL 


BOOK    THE    EIGHTH 


THEOSOPHY    IN    THE   AGE    OF    THE 
REFORMATION 


CHAPTER  I. 

Amongst  them  all  sate  he  that  wonned  there, 
That  liight  Phantastcs  by  his  nature  trew  ; 
A  man  ot  years  yet  fresh,  as  mote  appere, 
Of  swa'-th  eomplexion  and  of  crabbed  hew, 
That  him  full  of  melancholy  did  shew  ; 
Bent  hollow  beetle  brows,  sharpe  staring  eyes 
That  mad  or  foolish  seemed  :  one  by  his  view 
Mote  deemehim  born  with  ill  disposed  skyes. 
When  oblique  Saturne  sate  in  th'  house  oi  agonycs. 

bl'KNSICR. 

T^HE  autumn  is  already  advanced,  and  our  friends  who 
-*-  met  at  Summerford  have  returned  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  London.  The  days  of  damp  and  fog  have  arrived.  All 
nature  looks  sullen  and  lustreless.  As  Gower  gazes  through 
the  streaming  pane  on  the  narrowed  dripping  landscape,  he 
sometimes  tries,  as  sunny  Persia  and  the  Sufis  recur  to  him,  to 
transform  the  slope  before  his  windows  into  an  eastern  valley. 
Fancy  shall  sow  it  thick  with  poppies,  and  daisies,  and 
hyacinths  of  brilliant  red ; — a  thy  my  smell  breathes  up  the 
pass  ; — and  there  the  ungainly  stork,  and  gaily  painted  quails 
flutter  away  at  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs.  Or  those  house- 
tops at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  among  their  trees,  shall  be  a  Persian 
town,  on  which  he  looks  from  an  eminence.  There  are  the 
tiat-roofed  white  houses,  enclosing  in  their  courts  those 
twinkling  silver  lights,  the  fountains  ;  the  green  of  trees  among 
the  shining  walls  relieves  the  eye;  the  domes  and  minarets 
look  down  into  the  narrow  streets  ;  there  sleeps  the  burial- 
ground,  under  the  shadow  of  its  sentinel  cypresses ;  and  there 
blows  the  garland  of  gardens,  surrounding  the  whole  with  its 
wavy  line  of  many  colours.  But  the  weather  is  a  water- 
monster,  and  swallows  up  too-venturous  Fancy.      For  a  few 


50  'Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Rcformaiion.     [u. 


moments  imagination  can  lay  light  behind  the  clouds  ;  bright 
hues  flush  out  on  the  surface  of  familiar  forms,  and  the  magic 
power  prevails  to  change  them  into  creatures  of  the  Orient 
But  the  rainy  reality  is  too  potent,  and  the  wilderness  of  vapour 
will  receive  no  form,  retain  no  colour.  So  Gower  turns  away 
from  the  windows — pokes  the  fire — feels  idle  and  fit  for  nothing 
— struggles  with  himself — conquers,  and  finally  achieves  a 
morning's  work. 

Willoughby  has  laid  aside  his  romance  for  a  time  and  taken 
to  the  theosophists — to  Jacob  Behmen  more  especially.  In 
fact,  he  had  come  to  an  exciting  point  in  his  story.  He 
thought  he  had  found  a  kind  of  seething  turbulence  in  his 
thoughts,  like  that  which  certain  rivers  are  said  to  manifest, 
when  in  parts  of  their  course  they  pass  over  beds  of  subter- 
ranean fire.  Afraid  of  becoming  morbid  and  unnatural,  he 
stopped  work  at  once,  and  had  recourse  to  Behmen  as  a 
refrigerant  and  sedative.  The  remedy  succeeded  to  admira- 
tion. Within  a  day  or  two  the  patient  could  pronounce 
himself  out  of  poetical  danger ;  and  Atherton  found  him,  when 
he  dropped  in  one  morning,  enjoying,  with  Behmen  in  his 
hand,  that  most  promising  token  of  convalescence — a  profound 
sleep. 

Gower  resolved  to  make  himself  amends  for  that  uncongenial 
morning,  by  spending  the  evening  at  Ashfield.  Thither  also 
Willoughby  had  found  his  way.  A  considerable  part  of  the 
evening  was  passed  in  Atherton's  Hbrary,  and  conversation 
turned,  before  very  long,  upon  the  mystics,  once  more,  and 
their  position  as  regards  the  Reformation. 

V/iLLouGHBY.  Those  Teutonic  v\'orthies  of  the  fourteenth 
century  are  noble  specimens  of  the  mystic. 

GoAVER.  Truly,  with  them,  I\Iysticism  puts  on  her  beautiful 
garments.     See  her  standing,   gazing  heavenward ;  '  her  rapt 


c.  I.]  Mysticism  in  its  Glory.  31 


soul  sitting  in  her  eyes,'  and  about  her  what  a  troop  of  shining 
ones  !  There  is  Charity,  her  cheek  wet  with  tears  for  the  dead 
Christ  and  pale  with  love  for  the  living ;  carrying,  too,  the  oil 
and  the  wine — for  Mysticism  was  the  good  Samaritan  of  the 
time,  and  succoured  bleeding  Poverty,  when  priest  passed  by 
and  Levite; — there  is  Truth,  withdrawing  worship  from  the 
form  and  superstitious  substitute,  transferring  it  from  priest  and 
pageantry  to  the  heart  alone  with  God,  and  pressing  on,  past 
every  channel,  toward  the  Fount  Himself; — there  Humility, 
pointing  to  the  embers  of  consumed  good  works,  while  she  de- 
clares that  man  is  nothing  and  that  God  is  all ; — and  there,  too. 
Patriotism,  and  awakening  Liberty — for  Mysticism  appealed 
to  the  people  in  their  native  tongue ;  fashioned  the  speech  and 
nerved  the  arms  of  the  German  nation  ;  gave  heart  to  the 
Fatherland  (bewildered  in  a  tempest  of  fiery  curses)  to  withstand, 
in  the  name  of  Christ,  the  vicar  of  Christ ;  led  on  the  Teu- 
tonic lion  of  her  popular  fable  to  foil  the  plots  of  Italian  Rey- 
nard ;  and  dared  herself  to  set  at  nought  the  infuriate  Infalli- 
bility. 

Atherton.  Go  on,  Gower. 

GowER.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  doctrine  of  justification  by 
faith,  is  practically  involved  in  a  theology  like  that  of  Tauler, 
so  deep  in  its  apprehension  of  sin  as  selfishness,  so  thorough  in 
renouncing  all  merit  on  the  part  of  man. 

Atherton.  Yes,  practically.  What  was  needful  in  addition 
was,  that  this  doctrine  should  take  its  due  central  place  in  the 
system  of  Christian  truth,  as  the  principle,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
of  salvation  for  all  men.  It  was  not  enough  to  arrive  at  it  as 
the  upshot  of  individual  mystical  e»xperience. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  There  I  think  you  indicate  the  weak  point  of 
this  mysticism — it  is  so  individual — so  much  a  matter  of  the 
personal  inward  life. 

GowER.  That  surely  is  the  very  secret  of  its  strength. 


32  TJicosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation.      [n.  vm. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yes,  of  its  strength  up  to  a  certain  limit ; 
beyond  that  Umit,  of  its  weakness.  It  lacked  facility  of  im- 
partation.  Its  sympathies  were  broad  and  humane ;  its  doc- 
trine too  narrow  and  ascetic.  Speaking  from  the  depths  of  a 
soul  that  had  known  the  nether  darkness  and  the  insufferable 
glory,  its  utterance  was  broken  and  obscure.  It  must  be  lived 
through  to  be  understood.  It  might  attract,  but  could  only 
partially  retain,  the  many.  Its  message,  after  all,  was  to  the 
few. 

GowER.  But  those  few,  master-minds,  remember. 

Atherton.  True,  yet  what  powers  could  compensate  for  the 
want  of  clear  speech — of  a  ready  vehicle  for  transference  of 
thought  ?  A  deep  saying  that  of  Jeremy  Taylor's,  where  he 
remarks  concerning  m3'stical  elevations  and  abstractions,  that, 
while  in  other  sciences  the  terms  must  first  be  known  and 
then  the  rules  and  conclusions,  the  whole  experience  of  mysti- 
cism must  first  be  obtained  before  we  can  so  much  as  know 
what  it  is,  and  the  end  acquired  first — the  conclusion  before 
the  premises. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  When  Luther  appears,  appealing  to  the  Bible 
in  the  hands  of  the  people,  the  defect  is  supplied,  and  we  have 
the  Reformation.  That  visible  and  venerable  externalism.  the 
Romish  Church,  could  not  be  successfully  assailed  on  merely 
internal  grounds.  The  testimony  of  the  individual  heart  against 
it  was  variable  and  uncertain,  because  more  or  less  isolated. 
Bat  where  the  Scriptures  are  set  free,  and  they  can  be  made  the 
basis  of  assault,  an  externalism  quite  as  visible,  and  more 
venerable,  brings  the  outward  to  bear  against  the  outward; 
while  the  power  of  an  inward  life,  pure  and  deep  and  ardent 
as  the  best  of  the  mystics  ever  knew,  animates  the  irresistible 
onset. 

GowER.  The  testimony  of  History,  then,  is  decidedly  against 
our  modern  spiritualism,  which  complains  that  we  make  too 


c  I.]  Mystics  and  Reformers.  33 

much  of  the  book,  and  sacrifice  the  subjective  rehgious  develop- 
ment to  an  outward  authority.  Luther — a  true  man  of  the 
spirit — conquered  because  he  could  point  to  a  letter.  The  fire 
of  his  own  inward  life  could  kindle  so  grand  a  flame,  because  he 
was  sustained  by  an  authority  which  no  individual  mystic  could 
arrogate.  The  Scriptures  were  the  common  ground  for  the 
Reformer  who  had  the  truth,  and  the  inquirer  who  sought  it. 
The  excessive  subjectivity  of  the  mystic  deprived  him  of  that 
advantage. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  are  we  not  overlooking  other  causes 
which  enabled  Luther  to  accomplish  so  much,  and  precluded 
the  mystics  from  carrying  further  their  reforming  tendency  ? 

Atherton.  By  all  means  let  the  influence  of  the  interval 
between  the  fourteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  be  duly  taken 
into  account.  To  do  so  will  only  make  good  Gower's  remark. 
During  the  fifteenth  century  you  find  no  fresh  development  of 
mysticism.  The  genuine  religion  of  the  period  was  still  mystical 
in  its  complexion,  but  characterised  by  a  much  larger  infusion 
of  the  scriptural  element.  This  was  the  real  advance  of  that 
interim.  At  the  Universities  the  Bible  began  to  displace  the 
schoolmen.  Abetter  system  of  interpretation  prevailed.  Even 
with  the  mystics  St.  Paul  was  already  taking  the  place  of 
Dionysius,  and  mysticism  began  to  lose  its  nature,  merging  in 
a  true  spirituality,  sober-minded  while  fervent.  In  the  theo- 
logy of  such  men  as  John  Wessel  and  Staupitz  (who  with 
Tauler  and  the  German  theology  nourished  the  early  religious 
life  of  Luther),  we  see  a  clearer  apprehension  of  the  nature  of 
Christ's  work  for  us — a  better  balancing  of  the  outward  and 
the  inward.  In  fact,  the  great  step  necessary  to  produce  a 
reformation,  after  the  mystics  had  made  their  preparation, 
was  this  very  bringing  into  prominence  of  the  word  of  God. 
Then,  to  the  ardour  and  the  power  of  mysticism  in  its  noblest 
form,  was  added  the  authority,  the  guidance,  and  the  divine 

VOL.  II.  D 


34  TheosopJiy  in  tJie  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

adaptation    of  that   message   of  salvation   announced  to   all 
mankind. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Then,  again,  the  doctrine  of  Luther  directed 
men  at  once  to  the  attainment  of  that  clear  hope  concerning 
th  "jir  spiritual  safety  which,  say  what  we  will,  is  the  craving  of 
our  nature.  We  have  seen  how  an  Eckart  would  become  pan- 
th  'ist  to  extort  from  philosophy  that  assurance  which  was 
denied  him  by  the  Church. 

GowER,  Yet  does  not  the  strength  and  attraction  of  Ro- 
manism lie  in  this  very  characteristic — its  tempting  facility 
of  comfort?  Most  men  prefer  a  sleeping  conscience  to  a 
tender  one ;  and  for  such  the  Romish  Church  offers  a  perpetual 
siesta. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Granted ;  for  this  very  reason,  however,  she 
cannot  satisfy  the  deeper  wants  of  the  class  I  speak  of — those 
men  out  of  whom  may  be  made  mystics,  reformers,  heretics, — 
but  religious  Helots  never.  I  am  not  speaking  of  mere  comfort, 
but  of  true  peace, —  of  that  entrance  into  a  new  relationship 
towards  God  which  gives  us  the  heart  to  aspire  towards  a  new 
nature. 

GowER.  Agreed,  then.  Bunyan  follows  Paul  when  he  makes 
Christian  lose  his  burden  early  in  the  pilgrimage,  so  that  he 
treads  the  onward  path  thenceforward  with  a  lighter  step. 

Atherton.  And  can  front  Apollyon  better.  Look  round  at 
the  Christendom  of  that  age.  You  see  only  two  classes  who 
escape  the  condition  of  the  hired  servant — who  are  the  sons  of 
God  and  not  his  bondsmen.  These  are  the  mystics  and  the 
reformers.  The  mystic  realizes  adoption  through  appalling 
griefs  and  toils  ;  the  reformer  is  led  thither  straightway,  as  he 
exclaims  with  St.  Paul,  '  Being  therefore  justified  by  faith,  we 
have  peace  with  God.' 

WiLLOUGHBY.  How  strongly  does  Luther  urge  men  to  be- 
lieve on  Christ  as  a  Saviour  for  them — to  receive  in  lowlv  sim- 


c.  I.]  Revolutionary  Mysticism.  35 

plicity  the  peace  divinely  offered.  How  triumphantly  does  he 
show  that  such  a  faith  is  victory — that  all  other  is  a  mere 
historic  belief  about  Christ,  not  a  belief  in  an  ever-presen 
Deliverer,  who  lives  within,  and  redeems  us  daily  from  ourselves. 
Thus  did  his  followers  helm  them  speedily  with  hope,  and 
escape,  in  great  measure,  the  fearful  strain  of  those  alternations 
between  rapture  and  despair,  for  which  mysticism  did  not  even 
seek  a  remedy.  The  distinction  between  justification  and  sanc- 
tification  is  no  mere  theological  refinement.  Its  practical  recog- 
nition, at  least,  is  essential  to  that  solemn  joyousness  which  is 
the  strength  and  glory  of  the  Christian  life. 

Atherton.  That  is,  after  all,  the  true  escape  from  Self  which 
delivers  you  from  bondage  to  the  sliifting  frames  and  feelings 
of  the  hour — the  mere  accidents  of  personal  temperament,  by 
making  clear  the  external  ground  of  hope.  Mysticism  had  not 
light  enough  to  find  the  way  to  its  own  ideal  of  rest.  Luther, 
with  his  Bible,  realized  in  soberness  the  longed-for  rejDOse  of 
its  intense  passion. 

WiLLOuGHBY.  We  must  confess  too,  I  think,  that  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  better  mysticism  were  not  strong  enough  to 
cope  with  the  fanatical  or  lawless  leaders  of  the  worse.  How 
Tauler,  Suso,  Ruysbroek,  and  the  author  of  the  Thcologia  Ger- 
vianica,  lift  up  their  voices  against  the  'false  lights' — against 
men  who  deified  every  impulse,  who  professed  to  have  tran- 
scended all  virtue,  who  renounced  all  moral  obligation  and  out- 
ward authority,  or  who  resigned  themselves  to  a  stupid  apathy 
which  they  called  poverty  of  spirit. 

GowER.  Those  who  constituted  this  last  class  must  have 
been  men  who  found  in  the  flilse  doctrine  only  an  excuse  for 
remaining  as  they  were  :— hard,  indeed,  to  raise  them  to  any- 
thing better.  I  imagine  them  poor  ignorant  hinds,  the  under- 
most victims  of  feudalism.  One  thinks  of  Tennyson's  portrai- 
ture of  the  serf, — 

D  2 


36  TJieosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,      [n.  vm. 

The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  witli  sapless  days, 
The  long  mechanic  pacinr;--  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life  and  apaii.i  ic  end. 

Wii.LOUGHBY.  Be  that  as  it  may,  this  bastard  mystioism, 
whether  rapacious  as  King  Stork,  or  passive  as  King  Log,  mul- 
tiplies among  men.  Want  and  oppression  seize  on  the  sacred 
pretext  of  an  inward  light,  and  mysticism  is  fast  growing  fierce 
and  revolutionary.  Good  men,  speaking  words  of  spiritual 
freedom,  have  unawares  awakened  licence.  They  themselves 
slew  Self  with  vigil  and  with  tears  ;  and,  lo  !  a  Hydra-headed 
Self,  rampant  and  ruthless,  stalks  abroad,  and  they  have  been 
unwittingly  his  creators. 

Atherton.  What  could  they  do,  as  mystics,  but  mourn 
and  rebuke  ?  The  inward  testimony  would  not  render  an  un- 
varying verdict  in  every  case.  Their  appeal  must  be,  either  to 
an  amount  of  right  moral  discernment  already  in  the  individual, 
or  to  the  social  judgment  of  a  certain  religious  circle.  Beyond 
these  limits  their  very  consistency  is  their  weakness.  For  the 
thorough-going  mystic,  who  is  resolved  to  be  in  all  things  a 
light  and  law  unto  himself,  replies  that  his  inward  light  is 
quite  as  divinely  authoritative  j^r  ////;;  as  is  that  of  the  moderate 
man,  reproving  his  excesses,  for  himself.  He  will  answer, 
*  Friend,  walk  thou  by  thy  light,  as  I  by  mine.  The  external 
is  nothing  to  the  internal.  'What  is  the  chaff  to  the  wheat?' 
saith  the  Lord.  Thou  art  external  to  me,  I  listen  therefore  to 
the  voice  within  me,  not  to  thine.' 

WiLLOUGHEY.  We  have,  too,  the  express  testimony  of 
Melanchthon  to  the  fact,  that  had  not  Luther  appeared  when 
he  did,  to  divert  the  under-current  of  popular  indignation  into 
the  middle  course  of  the  Reformation,  a  fearful  outbreak  must 
have  desolated  Europe  from  the  fury  kindled  by  the  intolerable 
oppressions  of  Church  and  State. 

GowER.  Certainly  mysticism  could  never  have  spoken  with 
power  enough  to  turn  aside  such  a  long-gathered  tempest. 


c.  I.]  The  Anabaptists  of  JUnnstcr.  yj 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Where  the  revolutionary  spirit  had  once 
broken  out,  only  the  strong  hand  could  avail. 

Atherton.  And  how  ruthlessly  was  tiiat  remedy  applied  ! 
Eut — what  in  the  world — Gower,  I  say,  open  your  eyes.  Are 
you  going  to  sleep  ? 

Gower.  I  was  trying  to  recall  a  dream  I  had  after  reading 
about  the  Anabaptists  of  Munster. 

WiLLOUGHBY.     A  dream  !     Let  us  have  it. 

Gower.  Wait  a  moment — ah,  now  I  remember.  First  of  all, 
I  saw  numbers  of  people  toiling  across  the  fields  or  along  miry 
roads ;  weary  mothers,  delicately  nurtured,  carrying  their  babes, 
and  followed  by  their  crying  little  ones  ;  the  fathers  laden,  it 
would  seem,  with  such  property  as  they  were  allowed  to  take 
away.  They  look  back  mournfully  towards  the  walls  of  a  city, 
out  of  whose  gates  more  of  their  friends  are  being  thrust. 
These  are  the  magistrates,  the  rich,  the  unbelievers,  driven 
forth  by  the  populace  to  find  what  shelter  they  may  among  the 
boors,  or  in  the  nearest  towns.  Then  I  am  suddenly  inside  tlie 
city.  I  see,  in  one  place,  a  crowd  gathered  about  a  shaggy, 
wild-eyed  preacher,  spluttering,  screaming,  foaming  at  the 
mouth ;  in  another  is  a  circle  surrounding  two  men  in  rags, 
whirling  round  like  spinning  dervishes.  One  man,  with  face 
ghastly  pale,  and  bandaged  head,  who  seems  to  have  escaped 
from  a  hospital,  moans  and  v/rings  his  hands,  predicting 
universal  run.  Now,  with  a  yell,  he  has  fallen  down  in  con- 
vulsions. There  a  burly  brute  has  pushed  down  a  weeping 
woman  from  the  door-steps  of  a  great  house,  that  he  may  stand 
on  the  spot  to  roar  out  his  prophecy  and  exhortation.  All  this 
was  somehow  mingled  with  hosannas  to  Mathieson,  the  baker ; 
and  at  the  end  of  the  high  street  they  were  dancing  about  a 
bonfire  made  of  all  the  books  in  the  town,  save  the  Bible  only. 
Then  the  crowd  made  way  for  the  favourite  wife  of  John 
Bokelson,  the  tailor,  riding  in  a  great  coach,  resplendent  in 


38  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,      ("u.  vm. 

silks  and  costly  stufts  torn  from  the  churches.  Methought  I 
entered  the  Town  Hall.  There,  on  a  throne,  in  a  suit  of  silver 
tissue,  slashed  and  lined  with  crimson,  fastened  with  buckles 
of  gold,  sat  John  Bokelson  himself.^ 

WiLLOUGHBY.  A  Mormon  elder,  *  all  of  the  olden  time  !' 
Atherton.  Be  quiet.  He  had  only  eight  wives. 
GowER.  There  he  sat,  with  his  triple  crown,  his  globe,  and 
cross  of  gold,  his  silver  and  golden  swords,  and  above  his  head 
I  could  read,  ^  King  of  Righteousness  over  the  whole  World. 
Then  came  a  long  succession  of  petitioners,  thrice  kneeling  and 
prostrating  themselves  before  him.  A  bell  rang.  The  audience 
was  over.  Now  he  was  sending  out  ambassadors,  calling  on 
the  neighbouring  towns  to  rise  and  establish  the  Kingdom  of 
the  Holy  Ghost, — '  for  the  meek  are  to  inherit  the  earth,  and 
the  time  for  spoihng  the  P>gyptians  is  come.'  After  this  I  saw 
long  tables  spread  in  the  market-place,  with  fine  linen  cloths, 
whereat  four  thousand  people  partook  of  the  sacrament,  and 
afterwards  riotously  feasted ;  the  grey  towers  of  the  cathedral 
looking  down  upon  them.  I  passed  in  at  the  church  doors. 
All  was  confusion  there,  drunken  shouts,  and  running  to  and 
fro  of  boys  from  cook-shops.  The  great  oriel  window  had  been 
broken  by  stones,  and  on  the  pavement,  with  its  time-worn 
epitaphs,  lay  the  many-coloured  fragments  of  glass,  among 
broken  flagons  and  pools  of  beer.  A  mad  musician  had  seized 
upon  the  organ,  and  above  the  uproar  rolled  the  miglity  volumes 
of  sound,  shaking  the  old  dusty  banners.  Now  came  a  crash 
of  unearthly  music — quite  unheeded, — and  then  the  melody 
melted  and  trembled  away,  dying  down  with  a  far-off  wail  of 
unutterable  pathos.  In  the  midst  of  his  ecstasy  the  crazed 
performer  was  hurled  away  by  a  swarm  of  'prentice  lads  who 
had    found   their  way  up   the   staircase.      One   among   them 

1  A  reference  to  Raumer's  History  dream  '  was  not  all  a  dream.'  Most 
of  ike  Sixicenili  and  Scventceitili  Ceii-  minute  details  are  given  in  a  letter 
iuries  will  satisfy  the  reader  that  this      from  the  MSS.  of  Dupuy. 


c.  I.]  Letter  and  Spirit,  39 

truck  up  tlie  well-known  air  of  a  wanton  song.     There  was  an 
outcry  and  sound  of  struggling,  and  I   saw  the  madman  leap 

from  the  clerestory  down  into  the  middle  of  the  nave, 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  you  woke  ? 

GowER.  No.  There  came  over  me  a  kind  of  blank  bewilder- 
ment, and  all  was  changed.  The  sides  of  the  church  had 
become  mountains.  I  was  in  a  winding  rocky  glen,  and  the 
moon  was  rising  over  the  black  fantastic  peaks  that  shut  in  the 
valley.  I  saw  what  made  me  think  of  Ezekiel's  vision  of  dry 
bones.  Along  the  hollow  of  the  gorge,  and  in  the  great  furrows 
of  the  heights  on  each  side,  where  should  have  been  mountain 
streams  and  pebbles,  were  the  glistening  bones ;  and  on  the 
rock-ledges  where  the  moonlight  fell  I  could  see  them  strewn  ; 
and  on  every  boulder,  skeleton-heaps  ;  and  at  the  mouth  of 
every  cavern,  like  icicles  hanging  from  the  stony  jaws.  I  heard 
a  rising  wind  sweep  up  the  pass, — another  blast,  and  another  ; 
and  then,  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  a  sound  as  though 
withered  boughs  of  innumerable  trees  were  snapping  in  a 
tempest.  All  was  whirling,  darting  motion  among  the  white 
ratding  fragments,  above,  beneath,  around  ;  till  every  clanking 
bone  had  been  locked  to  its  fellow,  and  a  skeleton  sat  on  every 
crag  and  lay  in  every  hollow.  The  sinews  and  the  flesh  then 
came  up  upon  them;  after  that,  the  breath:  and  they  arose, 
an  exceeding  great  army.  I  heard  a  muttering  near  me,  and 
turning,  I  saw  one  gazing  on  the  multitude,  having  in  his  hand 
a  torch.  His  wild,  eager  look  startled  me.  Now  I  thought  he 
was  Carlstadt,  and  then  he  changed  into  Thomas  jMiinzer. 
Then  again  I  was  sure  I  recognized  Spenser's  Phantastes.  He 
flung  his  torch  into  a  cleft,  whence  it  breathed  out  its  last 
sparks  into  the  windy  night,  and  bowing  his  head,  turned 
slowly  away.  I  heard  him  say,  '  Dead  Church  !  Dead  Church  ! 
How  shalt  thou  live  ?  I  have  learnt  it.  Flesh  and  blood 
first — then  breath.     Truth  for  a  body,  then  Love  for  a  soul 


40  ThcosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

The  spirit  must  have  a  form — must  quicken  a  letter.  First  a 
fact  for  motive  ;  then  let  the  young  life  work.  The  soul  must 
have  its  sinews  ;  the  spirit  its  instrument,  its  means,  its  words. 
Lie  there,  fire  that  destroyest ;  come  hither,  fire  that  warmest, 
— that  warmest  to  good,  and  that  warnest  from  evil.'  Then  I 
saw  that  he  had  a  new  book  in  his  hand, — the  last  part  then 
published  of  Luther's  German  New  Testament.  He  vanished. 
The  hills  rolled  away  in  smoke,  and  I  awoke  with  a  start. 

Atherton.  I  wish  Phantastes  and  his  kindred  had  really 
learnt  the  lesson  of  your  dream.  But  such  hot-brained  en- 
thusiasts cannot  be  taught,  not  even  by  sore  stripes  of  adversity 
in  the  school  of  fools. 


CHAPTER  ir. 

lie  ihat  misbelieves  and  lays  aside  clear  and  cautious  reason  in  things  that 
fall  under  the  discussion  of  Reason,  upon  the  pretence  of  hankering  after  some 
higher  principle,  (which,  a  thousand  to  one,  proves  but  the  infatuation  of 
Melancholy  and  a  superstitious  hallucination),  is  as  ridiculous  as  if  he  would  not 
use  his  natural  eyes  about  their  proper  object  till  the  presence  of  some  super- 
natitral  light,  or  till  he  had  got  a  pair  of  Spectacles  made  of  the  Crystalline 
Heaven,  or  of  the  Coelum  Empyreum,  to  hang  upon  his  nose  for  him  to  look 
through. — Henky  More. 

A  THERTON.  I  ought  to  acknowledge,  I  suppose,  that  I 
have  by  me  a   rough  draught,  made  some  time  since, 
representing  the  first  strife  between  Mysticism  and  Reforma- 
tion.    But,  as  to  reading  it,  I  scarcely  think 

WiLLOUGHBY.  You  wiU  not  do  so,  I  beg. 
Atherton.  Willoughby,    you    shall    suffer   for    that.      I'll 
begin. 

Willoughby.  Pelt  away.  I  thought  I  should  get  a  cocoa- 
nut  for  my  stone.     {Atherton  reads) 

Luther  and  the  Mystics. 

The  estimate  to  be  formed  of  the  mystics  who  lived  before 
the  Reformation  differs  very  widely  from  that  which  is  due  to 
those  who  appeared  after  it.  Previous  to  the  Reformation, 
there  was  a  far  larger  amount  of  truUi  with  the  mystics  tlian 
with  any  other  party  in  the  Romish  Church.  They  were,  in 
reality,  men  of  progress,  and  belonged  to  the  onward  element 
in  their  day  and  generation.  For  reform  of  some  sort  many  of 
them  laboured — all  of  them  sighed.  They  protested  against 
the  corruptions  of  religion.  Many  an  Augean  stable  would 
they  have  cleansed,  could  they  but  have  found  their  Hercules. 


42  fheosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [u.  vm 

In  France,  Briconnet,  Gerard,  and  Roussel  were  men  of  this 
class— not  so  outspoken  as  Luther  and  his  followers,  but  led 
by  mysticism  to  sympathy  with  reforming  views,  and  enabled 
by  that  very  mysticism  to  retain  their  connexion  with  Rome, 
regarding  externals  as  indifferent. 

When  Luther   comes   with   his  doctrine  of  justification  by 
faith,   and   his    announcement    that    the   Scriptures   are    the 
sufficient  standard   of  Christian   truth,  a  great  change  takes 
place.     Mystics  of  the  more  thoughtful,  rightly  earnest  sort,  are 
among   the   first  to  embrace  the  new  doctrines.     Here  they 
have  the  guide  they  longed  for— here  they  find  what  mysticism 
could  never  give.     They  are,  some  of  them,  like  Justin  Martyr, 
who  waited  long  among  the  schools  of  the  Platonists  for  their 
promised  immediate  intuition  of  Deity,  and  then   discovered 
among  Christians  that  God  was  to  be  known  in  another  way 
far  better— through  the  medium  of  his  written  Word,  by  the 
teaching  of  his  Spirit.     But  those  who  when  a  fuller  light  came, 
refused  to  quit  for  its  lustre  that  isolated  and  flickering  torch, 
about  whicli  men  had  gathered  for  lack  of  anything  brighter, 
such  were  given  over  to  the  veriest  absurdity,  or  speedily  con- 
signed to  utter  forgetfulness.     By  the  mystic  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  the  way  of  the  Reformation  was  in  great  part  pre- 
pared.    By  the  mystic  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  was  hindered 
and  imperilled.     In  that  huge  ship  of  the  state  ecclesiastic, 
which  all  true  hearts  and  hands  in  those  troublous  times  were 
concerned  to  work  to  their  very  best,  a  new  code  of  regulations 
had  been  issued.     Such  rule  came  in  with  Luther.     Now  some 
of  those  who  would  have  been  among  the  very  best  sailors 
under  the   old  management,  proved   useless,  or   worse  than 
useless  under  the  new.     One  set  of  them  were  insolent  and 
mutinous— had  a  way  of  reviling  the  captain  in  strange  gib- 
berish— and  a  most  insane  tendency  to  look  into  the  powder- 
room  with  a  light.    Another  class  lay  about  useless,  till  having 


;.]  Bodenstein  of  Carlstadt.  43 


been  tumbled  over  many  times  by  their  more  active  comrades, 
they  got  kicked  into  corners,  whence  they  were  never  more  to 
emerge.  So  fared  it  with  mysticism,  attempting  to  persist  ni 
existence  when  its  work  for  that  time  was  done.  The  mystic 
so  situated  was  either  a  caricature  of  reform  or  a  cipher,  either 
a  fanatical  firebrand  or  an  unheeded  negation. 

We  need  not  go  far  for  examples.  Dr.  Bodenstein  of  Carl- 
stadt (best  known  as  simple  Carlstadt)  is  professor  at  Witten- 
berg, and  a  thorough  reformer.  He  is  a  little,  swarthy, 
sunburnt  man,  crotchety  to  the  last  degree.  He  follows  his 
intuitions— now  this  whim,  now  that— right  to-day,  wrong 
to-morrow — a  man  whom  you  never  know  where  to  find.  He 
must  spring  to  his  conclusion  at  once ;  he  will  not  first  pause 
for  satisfying  reasons,— for  clear  ideas  on  the  various  bearings 
of  his  thought  or  deed.  So  his  life  is  a  series  of  starts ;  his 
actions  incongruous  and  spasmodic,  unlinked,  unharmonized 
by  any  thoughtful  plan  or  principle. 

But  Carlstadt  is  a  man  of  books  as  well  as  of  action.  He 
writes  treatises,  repeating  the  doctrines  of  Tauler  and  the 
German  Theology,  all  about  abandonment,  and  not  seeing 
God  or  enjoying  Him  more  in  this  than  in  that  event  or 
employment ;  about  the  sin  of  enjoying  ordinances  and  media, 
rather  than  God  immediately  ;  about  the  blessed  self-loss  in  the 
One ;  about  the  reduction  of  ourselves  to  nothing.  Ah,  Dr. 
Bodenstein,  thou  mayest  write  for  ever  that  way,  and  no  one 
now  will  read  !  Men  have  left  all  this  behind.  A  ripe  full 
vintage  invites  their  thirst;  thine  acrid  and  ascetic  grape  is 
now  deserted.  Gladly  do  they,  for  the  most  part,  exchange 
the  refined  and  impracticable  requirements  of  mysticism,  its 
vagueness,  its  incessant  prohibition,  for  the  genial,  simple 
truth  of  that  German  New  Testament  which  Luther  is  giving 
them. 

At  the  juncture  of  which  we  are  about  to  speak,  Luther  lay 


44         Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation.       [„.  ^nx. 

hidden  in  the  Wartburg.  In  the  small  town  of  Zwickau,  in  the 
Erzgebii-ge,  there  arose  a  knot  of  enthusiasts  for  whom  Luther 
did  not  go  half  far  enough.  There  was  Storch,  a  weaver,  to 
whom  Gabriel  had  made  very  wonderful  communications  one 
night ;  another  weaver,  named  Thomas,  and  a  student,  Stub- 
ner,  who  had  forsaken  the  toil  of  study  for  the  easier  method 
of  supernatural  illumination.  To  these  should  be  added  the 
more  notorious  Thomas  Miinzer,  who  has  been  erroneously 
regarded  as  the  founder  of  the  party.  '  Why  such  a  slavish 
reverence  for  what  the  Bible  says  ?'  cry  these  mystics.  '  What 
is  a  mere  book  ?'  '  Have  we  not  immediate  voices,  impulses, 
revelations  from  the  Holy  Spirit,  dictating  all  we  should  do  ? 
Better  this  than  your  Bible  reading  and  college  work.'  Then, 
next,  they  prophesy  terrible  woes  and  judgments  to  come  on 
Christendom,  mainly  through  the  Turks;  they  themselves, 
perhaps,  in  fitting  time,  may  draw  the  sword  of  the  Lord  and 
of  Gideon,  and  win  the  land  for  the  saints. 

These  worthies  were  put  down  by  the  magistrates  of  Zwickau. 
Shaking  off  the  Zwickau  dust  against  their  enemies,  several  of 
them  seek  a  '  larger  sphere  of  usefulness'  in  Wittenberg.  They 
found  the  city  already  in  no  small  excitement  concerning  cer- 
tain reforms  which  Carlstadt  was  making  at  full  speed.  He 
fraternizes  with  the  Zwickau  prophets  at  once.  Indeed,  he 
had  been  heard  to  say  of  the  whole  body  of  Scrii)ture  what 
divines  were  accustomed  to  say  of  the  law  only,  that  it  was  a 
killing  letter,  leading  to  nothing  more  than  a  sense  of  guilt  and 
deserved  condemnation.  Faster  and  faster  come  his  changes, 
so  well-meant,  but  so  ill-advised.  With  a  kvf  strokes  he 
abolishes  auricular  confession,  makes  it  incumbent  to  violate 
the  fast  days,  and  renders  it  customary  to  come  to  the  sacra- 
ment without  preparation.  Next  an  iconoclast  riot  is  raised. 
Carlstadt  declares  that  the  magistrates  have  power  to  render 
criminal  those  observances  which  the  popular  voice  declares 


c.  2.]  Carlstadfs  Eccentricities.  45 

contrary  to  the  Word  of  God  ;  that  if  they  refuse,  the  com- 
munity may  take  the  law  into  its  own  hands. 

A  scholar  like  Carlstadt,  a  professor  of  established  repute, 
surrenders  at  last  to  the  vulgar  error  of  the  very  coarsest  mysti- 
cism. He  advises  his  students  to  go  home ;  human  learning 
is  vain ;  Hebrew  and  Greek  an  idle  toil  ;  inspiration  is  far 
above  scholarship.  Were  there  not  prophets  among  them, 
wiser  than  all  the  doctors,  who  had  never  studied  anything  or 
anywhere  for  half  an  hour  ?  He  himself  went  about  among  the 
poor  people,  asking  them  the  meaning  of  Scripture  passages, 
and  believing  that  the  hap-hazard  notions  they  put  forth  were  a 
special  revelation  from  Him  who  hideth  from  the  wise  and 
prudent  what  is  revealed  unto  babes.  Imagine  the  Professor 
bawling  a  text  into  the  ear  of  some  deaf  old  crone  who  cowers 
beside  the  stove,  and  awaiting  the  irrelevant  mumblings  of 
ignorant  decrepitude  as  the  oracle  of  God!  Fancy  him 
accosting  the  shoemaker  at  his  stall,  and  getting  his  notion  of 
the  text  in  question,  noting  it  down  as  infallible,  and  going  his 
way  rejoicing  ;  while  Crispin,  who  knows  him,  thinks  over  and 
over  again  what  a  far  cleverer  answer  he  might  have  given,  and 
wishes  unsaid  what  Carlstadt  believes  inspired  ! 

Is  there  no  one  in  Wittenberg  to  unmask  these  follies,  and 
to  quiet  the  smouldering  excitement  dangerously  spreading 
among  townspeople  and  students?  Melanchthon  is  young. 
Tiie  loud  browbeating  volubility  of  the  prophets  overpowers 
his  gentle  nature.  He  is  undecided — he  fancies  he  sees  some 
force  in  what  they  say  about  baptism.  He  is  timid — he  will 
do  nothing. 

Friends  write  to  Luther.  Back  comes  an  answer  from  a 
man  who  sees  to  the  heart  of  the  matter  in  a  moment— a 
standing  confutation  of  the  mystic's  ambition,  in  three  sen- 
tences. Thus  replies  Luther — '  Do  you  wish  to  know  the 
place,  the  time,  the  manner  in  which  God  holds  converse  with 


46         TJieosopJiy  in  tJie  Age  of  the  Reformation.       [b.  vm. 

men  ?  Hear  then — *  As  a  lion  so  hath  he  crushed  all  my 
bones ;'  and  again,  '  I  am  cast  out  from  before  thy  face ;'  and 
again,  '  My  soul  is  filled  with  plagues,  and  my  life  draweth 
nigh  unto  the  gates  of  hell/  The  Divine  Majesty  does  not 
speak  to  men  immediately,  as  they  call  it,  so  that  they  have 
vision  of  God,  for  He  saith,  '  No  flesh  shall  see  me  and  live.' 
Human  nature  could  not  survive  the  least  syllable  of  the 
Divine  utterance.  So  God  addresses  man  through  men, 
because  we  could  not  endure  His  speaking  to  us  without 
medium.' 

And  the  mystics  could  not  say  (as  mystics  so  commonly 
plead)  that  Luther  was  a  man  unable,  from  defective 
experience,  to  understand  them.  If  any  man  had  sounded 
the  depths  of  the  soul's  '  dim  and  perilous  way,'  it  was  he. 
Nay,  it  is  for  him  to  question  their  experience.  *  Inquire,'  he 
says,  to  Melanchthon,  '  if  they  know  aught  of  those  spiritual 
distresses,  those  divine  births,  and  deaths,  and  sorrows,  as  of 
liell.'^ 

Luther  receives  day  by  day  more  alarming  intelligence.  He 
fears  the  spread  of  false  doctrine — insurrection  in  the  name  of 
reform.  He  is  anxious  lest  the  elector  should  persecute  the 
new  lights — a  step  which  the  fat,  amiable,  children-with-sugar- 
plums-feeding  Frederick,  was  not  very  likely  to  take.  He 
forms  the  heroic  resolve  of  quitting  his  refuge,  and  suddenly 
reappears  in  Wittenberg.  He  preaches  sermons  marvellous  for 
moderation  and  wisdom — sermons  which  accomplish  what  is  so 
hard,  the  calming  of  heated  passion,  the  reconciliation  of  ad- 
versaries. At  his  voice  Violence  and  Tumult  slink  away — 
their  hounds  still  in  the  leash  ;  and  Charity  descends,  waving 
her  wand  of  peace,  and  shedding  the  light  of  her  heavenly 
smile  on  every  face.     So  triumphs  Religion  over  Fanaticism. 

Finally,  Luther  was  called  on  to  hold  a  discussion  with  two 
1  See  Note,  p.  51. 


c.  2.]  Sebastian  J  rank.  47 

of  the  prophets,  Stiibner,  and  one  Cellarius,  a  schoohiiaster. 
The  latter,  when  called  upon  by  Luther  to  substantiate  his 
positions  from  the  Scripture,  stamps,  strikes  the  table  with  his 
fist,  and  declares  it  an  insult  to  speak  so  to  a  man  of  God. 
Luther,  at  last,  seeing  this  man  foaming,  roaring,  leaping  about 
like  one  possessed,  comes  to  believe  that  there  is  a  spirit  in 
these  men — but  an  unclean  one  from  beneath.  He  cries  out 
finally,  after  his  homely  fashion,  '  I  smack  that  spirit  of  yours 
upon  the  snout.'  Howls  of  indignation  from  the  Zwickauer 
side — universal  confusion — dissolution  of  assembly.  The 
prophets  after  this  find  themselves  moved  to  quit  Wittenberg 
without  delay — their  occupation  gone.  Let  prosaic  or  scep- 
tical folk  regard  this  discussion  as  they  may,  to  those  who  look 
beneatli  the  surface,  it  is  manifest  that  there  really  was  a  con- 
flict of  spirits  going  on  then  and  there — the  unclean  spirit  of 
Arrogance  and  Misrule  quailing  before  that  of  Truth  and 
Soberness." 

Carlstadt  and  his  allies  of  Zwickau  exhibit  mysticism  ram- 
pant, making  reformation  look  questionable.  A  very  fair 
representative  of  the  other  class  of  mystic  is  found  in 
Sebastian  Frank.  This  man,  born  at  the  close  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  seems  to  have  lived  a  wandering  life  in  different  parts 
of  Germany  (often  brought  into  trouble  by  his  doctrines, 
probably)  for  some  forty  or  fifty  years.  He  was  early  ena- 
moured of  the  German  Theology,  the  writings  of  Tauler,  above 
all,  of  Eckart's  speculations.  The  leading  principles  con' 
tained  in  the  books  he  regarded  with  such  veneration,  he 
elaborated  into  a  system  of  his  own.  Starting  with  the 
doctrine  of  the  Theologia  Gcnnanica,  that  God  is  the  si/bs/a/is 
of  all  things,  he  pushes  it  to  the  verge  of  a  dreamy  pantheism 
— nay,  even  beyond  that  uncertain  frontier.  He  conceives  of 
a  kind  of  divine  life-process  {Lebens-prozess)  through  which  the 
-  Seethe  account  in  YisinkQ's  History  0/ the  Reformation. 


48         ThcosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation.       [b.  vm. 


universe  has  to  pass.  This  process,  like  the  Hegelian,  is 
threefold.  First,  the  divine  substance,  the  abstract  unity 
which  produces  all  existence.  Second,  said  substance  appear- 
ing as  an  opposite  to  itself — making  itself  object.  Third,  the 
absorption  of  this  opposition  and  antithesis — the  consummate 
realization  whereof  takes  place  in  the  consciousness  of  man 
when  restored  to  the  supreme  unity  and  rendered  in  a  sense 
divine.  The  fall  of  man  is,  in  his  system,  a  fall  from  the 
Divinity  within  him — that  Reason  which  is  the  Holy  Ghost,  in 
which  the  Divine  Being  is  supposed  first  to  acquire  will  and 
self-consciousness.  Christ  is,  with  him,  the  divine  element  in 
man.  The  work  of  the  historic  Saviour  is  to  make  us  con- 
scious of  the  ideal  and  inward,  and  we  thus  arrive  at  the 
consciousness  of  that  fundamental  divineness  in  us  which 
knows  and  is  one  with  the  Supreme  by  identity  of  nature.* 
Such  doctrine  is  a  relapse  upon  Eckart,  and  also  an  anticipa- 
tion of  modern  German  speculation. 

Yet,  shall  we  say  on  this  account  that  Sebastian  Frank  was 
before  his  age  or  behind  it }  The  latter  unquestionably.  He 
stood  up  in  defence  of  obsolescent  error  against  a  truth  that 
w."s  blessing  mankind.  He  must  stand  condemned,  on  the 
sole  ground  of  judgment  we  modern  judges  care  to  take,  as 
one  of  the  obstructives  of  his  day  who  put  forth  what  strength 
he  had  to  roll  back  the  climbing  wheel  of  truth.  We  pardon 
Tauler's  allegorical  interpretations — those  freaks  of  fancy,  so 
subtile,  so  inexhaustible,  so  curiously  irrelevant  in  one  sense, 
yet  so  sagaciously  brought  home  in  another — we  assent  to 
Melanchthon's  verdict,  who  calls  him  the  German  Origen ;  but 
we  remember  that  every  one  in  his  times  interpreted  the  Bible 
in  that  arbitrary  style.  The  Reformers,  aided  by  the  revival 
of  letters,  were  successful  in  introducing  those  principles  of  in- 

3  See   Carriere,   Die  philosophische    Welianschauurig  der  Rcformationzcit 
1847),  pp.  196-203. 


c.  2.]  Sebastian  Frank.  49 

terpretation  with  which  we  are  ourselves  famiUar.  But  for  this 
more  correct  method  of  exegesis,  the  benign  influence  of  the 
Scriptures  themselves  had  been  all  but  nullified ;  for  any  one 
might  have  found  in  them  what  he  would.  Yet  against  this 
good  thing,  second  only  to  tlie  Word  itself,  Sebastian  Frank 
stands  up  to  fight  in  defence  of  arbitrary  I'ancy  and  of  lifeless 
pantheistic  theory  with  such  strength  as  he  may.  So  has 
mysticism,  once  so  eager  to  press  on,  grown  childishly  con- 
servative, and  is  cast  out  straightway.  Luther  said  he  had 
written  nothing  against  Frank,  he  despised  him  so  thoroughly. 
*  Unless  my  scent  deceive  me,'  says  the  reformer,  '  the  man  is 
an  enthusiast  or  spiritualist  {Gcisierer),  for  whom  nothing  will 
do  but  spirit !  spirit ! — and  not  a  word  of  Scripture,  sacrament, 
or  ministry.' 

So  Frank,  contending  for  the  painted  dreams  of  night  against 
the  realities  of  day — for  fantasy  against  soberness — and  falling, 
necessarily,  in  the  fight,  has  been  curtained  over  in  his  sleep  by 
the  profoundest  darkness.  Scarcely  does  any  one  care  to 
rescue  from  their  oblivion  even  the  names  of  his  many  books. 
What  is  his  Golden  Ark,  or  Seven  Sealed  Book,  or  collection  of 
most  extravagant  interpretations,  called  Paradoxa,  to  any 
human  creature  ? 

For  a  Chronicle  he  left  behind,  the  historian  has  sometimes 
to  thank  him.  He  had  a  near-sighted  mind.  Action  im- 
mediately about  him  he  could  limn  truly.  But  he  had  not  the 
comprehensiveness  to  see  whither  the  age  was  tending.  , 

WiLLouGHBY.  How  admirable  is  that  reply  of  Luther's ; — 
an  unanswerable  rebuke  of  that  presumptuous  mysticism  which 
would  boastfully  tear  aside  the  veil  and  dare  a  converse  face  to 
face  with  God.  Scmele  perishes.  That  the  fanatic  survives  is 
proof  that  he  has  hut  embraced  a  cloud. 

Atherton.  a  rebuke,  rather,  of  that  folly,  in  all  its  forms, 

VOL.  II.  E 


50  Theo$ophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Refonnation.     [n.  vin. 

which  imagines  itself  the  subject  of  a  special  revelation  that  is 
no  fearful  searching  of  the  soul,  but  merely  a  flattering  reflec- 
tion of  its  own  wishes. 

GowER.  And  what  can  most  men  make  of  that  milder  form 
of  the  same  ambition — I  mean  the  exhortation  to  escape  all 
image  and  figure  ?  How  else  can  we  grasp  spiritual  realities  ? 
The  figurative  language  in  which  religious  truth  is  conveyed  to 
us  seems  to  me  to  resemble  that  delicate  membrane  gummed  to 
the  back  of  the  charred  papyrus-roll,  which  otherwise  would 
crumble  to  pieces  in  unwinding.  The  fragile  film  alone  would 
drop  to  dust,  but  by  this  means  it  coheres,  and  may  be  un- 
folded for  inspection. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  when  a  scripture  figure  is  pressed  too  far 
(the  besetting  sin  of  systematising  divines),  it  is  as  though  your 
gold-beater's  skin,  or  whatever  it  be,  had  been  previously 
written  on,  and  the  characters  mistaken  for  those  of  the  roll  to 
which  it  was  merely  the  support  and  lining. 

GowER.  I  can  readily  conceive  how  provoking  a  man  like 
Sebastian  Frank  must  have  been  to  Luther,  with  his  doctrines 
of  passivity  and  apathy,  his  holy  contempt  for  rule,  for 
rationality,  or  practicability,  and  his  idle  chaotic  system-spin- 
ning, when  every  hand  was  wanted  for  the  goodly  cause  of 
Reform. 

Atherton.  Then  there  was  Schwenkfekl,  too,  who  went  ofi" 
from  Luther  as  pietist  in  one  direction,  while  Frank  departed 
as  pantheist  in  the  other. 

GowER.  A  well-meaning  man,  though;  a  kind  of  sixteenth- 
century  Quaker,  was  he  not  ? 

Atherton.  Yes.  Compound  a  Quaker,  a  Plymouth 
Brother,  and  an  Antip^do  Baptist,  and  the  result  is  something 
like  a  Schwenkfeldian. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  For  my  enquiries  concerning  Jacob  Belnnen, 
I  find  that  the  most  important  of  the  Lutheran  mystics  was  a 


c.  2.]  Valentine  Weigcl.  51 

quiet  man  of  few  words,  pastor  at  Tschopau  during  the  latter 
half  of  the  sixteenth  century,  by  name  Valentine  Weigel. 

GowER.  You  will  give  us  more  information  about  him  when 
you  read  your  essay  on  Jacob  Behmen.  For  the  present  I  con- 
fess myself  tired  of  these  minor  mystics. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  shall  have  to  do  with  him  only  in  as  far  as 
he  was  a  forerunner  of  Jacob.  Weigel's  treatises  were  published 
posthumously,  and  a  very  pretty  quarrel  there  was  over  his 
grave.  He  bases  his  theology  on  the  Theologia  Germanica, 
adds  a  modification  of  Sebastian  Frank,  and  introduces  the  the*" 
sophy  of  Paracelsus,  In  this  way  he  brings  us  near  to  Behmen, 
who  united  in  himself  the  two  species  of  mysticism — the  theo- 
pathetic,  represented  by  Schwenkfeld,  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
theosophic,  by  Paracelsus,  on  the  other. 

Atherton.  As  Lutheranism  grew  more  cold  and  rigid,  mys- 
ticism found  more  ground  of  justification,  and  its  genial  reaction 
rendered  service  to  the  Church  once  more. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  think  the  sword  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War 
may  be  said  to  have  cleared  legitimate  space  for  it.  In  that 
necessary  strife  for  opinion  the  inward  life  was  sorely  perilled. 
It  was  inevitable,  I  suppose,  that  multitudes  should  at  least 
have  sought,  not  only  spirituality  in  mysticism  and  purity  in 
separation,  but  wisdom  in  the  stars,  wealth  in  alchemy,  and  the 
communion  of  saints  in  secret  societies. 


Note  to  page  46. 

1  Luther  writes  :— Jam  vero  privatum  spiritum  explores  eliam,  quaeras, 
num  expert!  sint  spirituales  illas  angustias  et  iiativitates  divinas,  mortes, 
infemosque.  Si  audieris  blanda,  tranquilla,  devota  (ut  vocant)  et 
religiosa,  etiamsi  in  tertium  coelum  sese  raptos  dicant,  non  approbabis. 
Tent  a  ergo  etne  lesum  quidem  audias  gloriosum,  nisi  videris  prius  crucifixum. 
A  golden  rule. — Luth.  Epist.  De  Wette,  No.  358.  Jan.  13,  1522.  The 
language  he  uses  elsewhere  concerning  such  fanatics  is  strong,  but  not 
stronger  than  the  occasion  demanded.  It  was  indeed  no  time  for  compliment 
— for  hesitant,  yea-nay  utterance  upon  the  question.  The  freedom  claimed 
by   Carlstadt's    followers  led  straightway  to   a  lawless    pride,  wliich  was  so 

K  2 


52  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Refonnaiion.     [b.  vm. 

much  servitude  to  Satan- -was  the  death-wound,  not  the  crown,  of 
spiritual  hfe.  It  was  from  the  fulness  of  his  charity — not  in  lack  of  it — that 
Luther  uttered  his  manly  protest  against  that  perilous  lie.  Michelet 
selects  a  passage  which  shows  in  a  very  instructive  manner  how  the  strong 
mind  (in  tliis  quarrel,  as  in  so  many  more)  breaks  in  pieces,  with  a  touch, 
the  idols  which  seduce  the  weak.  '  If  you  ask  Carlstadt's  people,"  says 
Luther,  '  how  this  sublime  spirit  is  arrived  at,  they  refer  you,  not  to  the 
Gospel,  but  to  their  reveries,  to  their  vacuum.  '  Place  thyself,'  say  they, 
'ia  a  state  of  void  tedium  as  we  do,  and  then  thou  wilt  learn  the  same 
lesson  ;  the  celestial  voice  will  be  heard,  and  God  will  speak  to  thee  m 
psrson.'  If  you  urge  the  matter  further,  and  ask  what  this  void  tedium 
o  itheirs  is,   they  know  as  much  about  it  as  Dr.  Carlstadt  does  about  Greek 

and  Hebrew Do   you   not   in  all  this  recognize  the   Devil,  the  enemy 

of  divine  order?  Do  you  not  see  him  opening  a  huge  mouth,  and  crying, 
'  Spirit,  spirit,  spirit  !'  and  all  the  while  he  is  crying  this,  destroying  all 
the  bridges,  roads,  ladders, — in  a  word,  every  possible  way  by  which  the 
spirit  may  penetrate  into  you  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  external  order  established 
by  God  in  the  hoU  baptism,  in  the  signs  and  symbols,  and  in  his  own 
Word.  Tliey  would  have  you  learn  to  mount  the  clouds,  to  ride  the  wind  ; 
but  they  tell  you  neither  how,  nor  when,  nor  where,  nor  what;  all  these 
things  you  must  learn  of  yourself,  as  they  do.' 


CHAPTER  III. 

Subtle.  Your  lapis  fliilosophiciis  ? 

Face.    'Tis  a  stone, 
And  not  a  stone  ;  a  spirit,  a  soul,  and  a  body  ; 
Which  if  you  do  dissolve,  it  is  dissolved  ; 
If  you  coagulate,  it  is  coagulated  ; 
If  you  make  it  to  fly,  it  flieth. 

The  Alchemist. 

A  THERTON.  We  are  to  call  on  Willoughby  to-night,  I 
"^  believe,  to  conduct  us  to  Jacob  Behmen — or  Boehme, 
more  correctly. 

Willoughby.  I  shall  scarcely  bring  you  so  far  this  evening. 
I  have  to  trouble  you  with  some  preliminary  paragraphs  on  the 
theosophic  mysticism  which  arose  with  the  Reformation,  some 
remarks  on  the  theurgic  superstitions  of  that  period,  and  a  word 
or  two  about  Cornelius  Agrippa  and  Paracelsus.  A  very  for- 
midable preamble, — yet  necessary,  I  assure  you. 

And  herewith,  Willoughby,  after  solacing  himself  with  a 
goodly  bunch  of  grapes,  began  to  read  his  essay. 

On  the  Theosophy  of  Jacob  Behmen. 

§  I.  Mysticism  and  Science. 

I  have  to  trace  the  advance  of  mysticism  into  a  new  world. 
Prior  to  the  Reformation  the  mystic  sought  escape  in  God  from 
all  that  was  not  God.  After  that  epoch  he  is  found  seeking  at 
the  hands  of  his  Maker  a  supernatural  acquaintance  with  all 
that  He  has  made.  Once  his  highest  knowledge  was  that  sur- 
passing ignorance  which  swoons  in  the  glory  of  the  Infinite. 


54  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  viu. 

Now  he  claims  a  familiarity  passing  that  of  common  mortals 
with  the  mysteries  of  sea  and  land,  of  stars  and  elements. 
Escaping  that  monastic  dualism  which  abandoned  the  world  to 
Satan,  mysticism  will  now  dispute  the  empire  of  the  prince  of 
this  world.  Inspired  from  above,  and  haply  not  unaided  by 
angelic  ministries,  the  master  of  the  hidden  wisdom  will  de- 
voutly elicit  the  benign  potencies  of  the  universe,  and  repel  the 
malevolent.  No  longer  a  mere  contemplatist — gazing  up  at  the 
heights  of  the  divine  nature,  or  down  into  the  depth  of  the 
human — the  mystic  of  the  new  age  will  sweep,  with  all-piercing 
vision,  the  whole  horizon  of  things  visible.  The  theosophist 
covets  holiness  still,  but  knowledge  scarcely  less.  Virtue  (as 
aforetime)  may  be  regarded  by  such  mystics  too  much  as  the 
means  to  an  end.  But  the  end  is  no  longer  the  same.  With 
the  theopathetic  mysticism  the  exercise  of  the  Christian  graces 
and  the  discipline  of  fiery  spiritual  purgations  were  the  road 
to  a  superhuman  elevation — a  vision  and  repose  anticipating 
heaven.  With  the  theosophic,  Faith  and  Charity  and  Hope 
were  the  conditions  of  the  higher  knowledge.  For  never  to 
the  proud,  the  greedy,  the  impure,  would  heaven  vouchsafe  the 
keys  of  mystery  and  hazardous  prerogative  in  the  unseen  world 
To  the  contemplative  mystic  the  three  heavenly  sisters  brought 
a  cloud  of  glory ;  for  the  theosophist  they  unclasped  nature's 
'  infinite  book  of  secrecy ;'  in  the  hand  of  the  theurgist  they 
placed  an  enchanter's  wand. 

The  sphere  of  mysticism  was  not  thus  extended  by  any  ex- 
pansive force  of  its  own.  The  spirit  of  a  new  and  healthier  age 
had  ventured  to  depreciate  the  morbid  seclusion  of  the  cloister. 
Men  began  to  feel  that  it  was  at  once  more  manly  and  more 
divine  to  enquire  and  to  know  than  to  gaze  and  dream.  After 
the  servitude  of  the  schools  and  the  collapse  of  the  cloister,  the 
ambition  of  the'  intellect  would  acknowledge  no  limit,  would 
accept  of  no  repose.    The  highest  aspirations  of  reliHon  and  the 


c.  3.]  Mysticism  enlarges  the  Sphere.  55 

most  daring  enterprise  of  science  were  alike  mystical.  They 
coalesced  in  theosophy.  Changes  such  as  these  were  wrought 
by  a  power  from  without.  Mysticism  was  awakened  from  its 
feverish  dream  by  the  spirit  of  the  time — as  Milton's  Eve  by 
Adam  from  her  troubled  morning  sleep — and  invited  to  go  forth 
and  see  '  nature  paint  her  colours.' 

As  the  revival  of  letters  spread  over  Europe  the  taste  for  anti- 
quity, and  natural  science  began  to  claim  its  share  in  the  free- 
dom won  for  theology,  the  pretensions  of  the  Cabbala,  of  Hermes, 
of  the  Neo-Platonist  theurgy,  became  identified  with  the  cause 
of  progress. 

That  ancient  doctrine,  familiar  to  the  school  of  Plotinus, 
according  to  which  the  world  was  a  huge  animal — a  living 
organism  united  in  all  its  parts  by  secret  sympathies, — received 
some  fresh  development  in  the  fancy  of  every  adept.  The 
student  of  white  magic  believed,  with  lamblichus,  in  the  divine 
power  inherent  in  certain  words  of  invocation,  whereby  the 
aspirant  might  hold  intercourse  with  powers  of  the  upper  realm. 
With  the  modern,  as  with  the  ancient  Neo-Platonists,  religion 
bore  an  indispensable  part  in  all  such  attempts.  Proclus  required 
of  the  theurgist  an  ascetic  purity.  Campanella  demands  a  fdes 
ifiirinseca, — that  devout  simplicity  of  heart  which  should  qualify 
the  candidate  at  once  to  commune  with  holy  spirits  and  to  baffle 
the  delusive  arts  of  the  malign,^ 

But  the  theosophists  of  Germany  were  not,  like  the  Alexan- 
drians, slavish  worshippers  of  the  past.  They  did  not  resort  to 
theurgy  in  order  to  prop  a  falling  faith.  They  did  not  wield 
that  instrument  to  prolong,  by  the  spasmodic  action  of  supersti- 
tious practice,  the  life  of  an  expiring  philosophy.  Those  formulae 
of  incantation,  those  '  symbola'  and  '  synthemata,'  which  were 
everything  with  lamblichus,  were  with  many  of  them  only  a 
bye-work,  and  by  others  utterly  abjured.     They  believed  de- 

'   Horst's  /Aiuberbibliothek,  vol.  iii.  p.  21. 


56  TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [r.  vm. 

voutly  in  the  genuineness  of  the  Cabbala.  They  were  persuaded 
that  beneath  all  the  floods  of  change  this  oral  tradition  had  per- 
jvetuated  its  life  unharmed  from  the  days  of  Moses  downward, 
— even  as  Jewish  fable  taught  them  that  tlie  cedars  alone,  of 
all  trees,  had  continued  to  spread  tlie  strength  of  their  invul- 
nerable arms  below  the  waters  of  the  deluge.  They  rejoiced  in 
the  hidden  lore  of  that  book  as  in  a  treasure  rich  with  the  germs 
of  all  philosophy.  They  maintained  that  from  its  marvellous 
leaves  man  might  learn  the  angelic  heraldry  of  the  skies,  the 
mysteries  of  the  divine  nature,  the  means  of  converse  with  the 
potentates  of  heaven.^  But  such  reverence,  so  far  from  oppress- 
ing, seemed  rather  to  enfranchise  and  excite  their  imagination. 
In  the  tradition  before  which  they  bowed,  the  majesty  of  age 
and  the  charm  of  youth  had  met  together.  Hierocles  brought 
to  them  Pythagoras  out  of  an  immemorial  past ;  and  there  was 
no  novelty  more  welcome  in  that  restless  wonder-loving  present. 
Thus  the  theosophists  could  oppose  age  to  age,  and  reverently 
irupugn  the  venerable.  Antiquity,  in  the  name  of  Aristotle,  so 
long  absolute,  had  imposed  a  shameful  bondage.  Antiquity,  in 
the  name  of  Plato,  newly  disinterred,  imparted  a  glorious  privi- 
lege. The  chains  of  the  past  were  being  filed  away  by  instru- 
ments which  the  past  had  furnished.  Ancient  prescription 
became  itself  the  plea  for  change  when  one  half  of  its  demands 
was  repudiated  in  honour  of  the  other. 

'i'his  theosophy  was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  Hellenic,  the 
Oiiental,  and  the  Christian  styles  of  thought.  I  shall  assume 
as  its  emblem  the  church  of  St.  John,  at  Rhodes,  which,  full  of 
statues  of  saints  and  tombs  of  knights,  broken,  or  rounded  into 
mounds  of  sullied  snow  by  the  hand  of  time,  is  surmounted  by 
a  crescent,  and  echoes  to  the  voice  of  the  muezzin,  while  shel- 
tering beneath  its  porch  the  altar  of  a  Grecian  God.  But  our 
ini'ongruous  theosophic  structure,  ever  open  and  ever  changing, 

*  Agrippa's  Vanit  0  Arts  afid  Sciences,  chap.  47. 


c.  3.]  Nature  studied  by  the  Light  of  Grace,  57 

enlarged  its  precincts  continually.  A  succession  of  eccentric 
votaries  enriched  it  ceaselessly  with  quaint  devices,  fresh  flowers 
of  fancy,  new  characters  in  mystical  mosaic,  and  intricate  ara- 
besques of  impenetrable  significance. 

Plotinus,  indifferent  to  the  material  universe,  had  been  con- 
tent to  inherit  and  transmit  the  doctrine  of  the  world's  vitality. 
That  notion  now  became  the  nucleus  of  a  complex  system  of 
sympathies  and  antipathies.  It  suggested  remedies  for  every 
disease,  whether  of  mind  or  body.  It  prompted  a  thousand 
fantastic  appliances  and  symbols.  But  at  the  same  time  it  ren- 
dered the  enquirer  more  keenly  observant  of  natural  phenomena. 
Extolling  Trismegistus  to  the  skies,  and  flinging  his  Galen  into 
the  fire,  Paracelsus  declared  the  world  his  book."  The  leaves  of 
that  volume  were  continents  and  seas— provinces,  its  paragraphs 
— the  plants,  the  stones,  the  living  things  of  every  clime,  its 
illuminated  letters. 

In  the  dawn  of  science  hovered  a  meteor,  which  at  once  lured 
onward  and  led  astray  the  seekers  after  truth, — it  was  the  hope 
of  special  illumination.  They  hastened  to  generalize  on  a  med- 
ley of  crude  fancies  and  of  partial  facts.  For  generalization  was 
with  them  a  sudden  impulse,  not  a  slow  result.  It  was  an 
exalted  act  prompted  by  a  Divine  light  that  flashed  on  intuition 
from  without,  or  radiated  from  the  wondrous  depths  of  the 
microcosm  within.  Hence  (as  with  bees  in  dahlias)  their  in- 
dustry was  their  intoxication.  It  is  of  the  essence  of  mysticism 
to  confound  an  internal  creation  or  process  with  some  external 
manifestation.  Often  did  the  theosophist  rejoice  in  the  thought 
that  nature,  like  the  rock  in  the  desert,  had  been  made  to 
answer  to  his  compehing  rod, — that  a  divinely-given  stream 
welled  forth  to  satisfy  his  thirst  for  knowledge.  As  we  look 
back  upon  his  labours  we  can  perceive  that  the  impulse  was  by 
no  means  a  wonder,  and  often  anything  but  a  blessing.     It  was 

3  See  M.  B.  Lessing,  Paracelsus  sein  Leben  und  Denkev,  p.  60. 


58  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  viu. 

in  reality  but  as  the  rush  of  the  water  into  the  half-sunk  shaft 
of  his  research,  flooding  the  region  of  his  first  incautious  efforts, 
and  sooner  or  later  arresting  his  progress  in  every  channel  he 
might  open.     In  fact,  the  field  of  scientific  enquiry,  which  had 

withered  under  the  schoolman,  was  inundated  by  the  mystic, 

so  facile  and  so  copious  seemed  the  knowledge  realized  by 
heaven-born  intuition.  It  was  reserved  for  induction  to  develop 
by  a  skilful  irrigation  that  wonder-teeming  soil.  No  steady 
advance  was  possible  when  any  hap-hazard  notion  might  be 
virtually  invested  with  the  sanction  of  inspiration. 

The  admixture  of  light  and  darkness  during  that  twilight 
period  reached  precisely  the  degree  of  shadow  most  favourable 
to  the  vigorous  pursuit  of  natural  science  by  supernatural 
means. 

It  is  true  that  the  belief  in  witchcraft  everywhere  prevalent 
did,  ever  and  anon,  throw  people  and  rulers  alike  into  paroxysms 
of  fear  and  fury.  But  an  accompHshed  student  of  occult  art 
was  no  longer  in  much  danger  of  being  burnt  alive  as  a  fair 
forfeit  to  Satan.  The  astrologer,  the  alchemist,  the  adept  in 
natural  magic,  were  in  universal  demand.  Emperors  and  nobles, 
like  Rudolph  and  Wallenstein,  kept  each  his  star-gazer  in  a 
turret  chamber,  surrounded  by  astrolabes  and  alembics,  by 
ghastly  preparations  and  mysterious  instruments,  and  listened, 
with  ill -concealed  anxiety,  as  the  zodiac-zoned  and  silver-bearded 
counsellor,  bent  with  study  and  bleared  with  smoke,  announced, 
in  oracular  jargon,  the  junction  of  the  planets  or  his  progress 
toward  projection.  The  real  perils  of  such  pretenders  now 
arose  from  the  very  confidence  they  had  inspired.  Such  was  the 
thirst  for  gold  and  the  faith  in  alchemy,  that  no  man  supposed 
to  possess  the  secret  was  secure  from  imprisonment  and  torture 
to  compel  its  surrender.  Setonius  was  broken  on  the  wheel 
because  the  cruel  avarice  of  the  great  could  not  wring  out  of 


c.  3.]  Lutheran  Theurgy.  59 

him  that  golden  process  which  had  no  existence.  The  {t\y 
enquirers  whose  aim  was  of  a  nobler  order  were  mortified  to 
find  their  science  so  ill  appreciated.  They  saw  themselves 
valued  only  as  casters  of  horoscopes  and  makers  of  cunning 
toys.  Often,  with  a  bitter  irony,  they  assumed  the  airs  of  the 
charlatan  for  their  daily  bread.  Impostors  knavish  as  Sir 
Arthur  Wardour's  Dousterswivel,  deceived  and  deceiving  like 
Leicester's  Alasco,  swarmed  at  the  petty  court  of  every  land- 
grave and  elector. 

Theurgic  mysticism  was  practically  admitted  even  within  the 
Lutheran  Church,  while  the  more  speculative  or  devotional 
mysticism  of  Sebastian  Frank,  Schwenkfeld,  and  Weigel,  was 
everywhere  proscribed.  Lutheran  doctors,  believers  in  the  Cab- 
bala, which  Reuchlin  had  vindicated  against  the  monks,  were 
persuaded  that  theurgic  art  could  draw  the  angels  down  to 
mortals.  Had  not  the  heaven-sent  power  of  the  Cabbala 
wrought  the  marvels  of  Old  Testament  history  ?  Had  not  the 
power  of  certain  mystic  words  procured  for  Hebrew  saints  the 
privilege  of  converse  with  angelic  natures?  Had  not  the 
Almighty  placed  all  terrestrial  things  under  the  viceregency  of 
the  starry  influences  ?  Had  He  not  united  all  things,  ani- 
mate and  inanimate,  by  a  subtle  network  of  sympathies,  and 
was  not  man  the  leading  chord  in  this  system  of  harmony — the 
central  heart  of  this  circulating  magnetic  force  ?  Thus  much 
assumed,  a  devout  man,  wise  in  the  laws  of  the  three  kinds  of 
vincula  between  the  upper  and  lower  worlds,  might  be  per- 
mitted to  attract  to  himself  on  earth  those  bright  intelligences 
who  were  to  be  his  fellows  in  heaven.  Theurgy  rested,  there- 
fore, on  the  knowledge  of  the  intellectual  vinculum  (the  divine 
potency  inherent  in  certain  words),  the  astral  (the  favourable 
conjunction  of  the  planets),  and  the  elementary  (the  sympathy 
of  creatures).     In  the  use  of  these  was,  of  course,  involved  the 


6o 


Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 


usual  hocus-pocus  of  magical  performance — talismans,  magic 
lights,  incense,  doves'  blood,  swallows'  feathers,  d  fioc  geiuis 
oiime.* 


■f  The  third  and  fourth  volumes  of 
Horst's  ZaubcrbiHiothek  contain  a 
very  full  account  of  all  these  vincula. 
The  vincula  of  the  Intellectual  World 
are  principally  formulas  of  invocation; 
secret  names  of  God,  of  celestial 
principalities  and  spirits ;  Hebrew, 
Arabic,  and  barbarous  words  ;  magical 
figures,  signs,  diagrams,  and  circles. 
Those  of  the  Elementary  World  con- 
sist in  the  sympathetic  influence  of 
certain  animals  and  plants,  such  as 
the  mole,  the  white  otter,  the  white 
dove,    the  mandrake  ;  of  stones   and 


metals,  ointments  and  suffumio-ations. 
Tiiose  of  ^  the  Astral  or  Celestial 
World  depend  on  the  aspects  and  dis- 
positions of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
which,  under  the  sway  of  planetary 
spirits,  infuse  their  influences  into  ter- 
restrial objects.  This  is  the  astro- 
logical department  of  theurgy.  Mein- 
hold's  Sidonia  contains  a  truthful 
exhibition  of  this  form  of  theurgic 
mysticism,  as  it  obtained  in  Protestant 
Germany.  See  Paracelsus,  Dc  Spiriii- 
bus  Planetarum.T^ASsiva.  (Ed.  Dorn., 
1584-) 


CHAPTER  IV. 

For  I  am  siker  that  there  be  sciences, 
By  vvliich  men  maken  divers  apparences, 
Swiche  as  tliise  subtil  tregetoures  play. 
For  oft  at  festes  have  I  well  herd  say, 
That  tregetoures,  within  an  halle  large, 
Have  made  come  in  a  water  and  a  barge, 
And  in  the  halle  rowen  up  and  down. 
Sometime  hath  semed  come  a  grim  leoun. 
And  sometime  floures  spring  as  in  a  mede, 
Sometime  a  vine  and  grapes  white  and  rede, 
Sometime  a  castel  all  of  lime  and  ston, 
And  whan  hem  liketh  voidcth  it  anon. 
Thus  semetli  it  to  every  mannes  sight. 

Chaucer. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  terrestrial  ;  so  : — Give  me  thy  hand,  celestial ;  so. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsur. 


Willoughby's  Essay — Second  Evening. 

§  2.   Cornelius  Agrippa. 

/^ORNELIUS  AGRIPPA,  of  Nettesheim,  is  a  favourable 
^-^  specimen  of  that  daring  and  versatile  order  of  mind 
which,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  sought  adventure  and  renown 
in  every  province  of  philosophy.  His  restless  life  is  picturesque 
with  the  contrast  of  every  imaginable  vicissitude.  A  courtier 
and  a  scholar,  a  soldier  and  a  mystic,  he  made  the  round  of 
the  courts  of  Europe.  Patronized  and  persecuted  alternately, 
courted  as  a  prodigy  and  hunted  down  as  a  heretic,  we  see 
him  to-day  a  Plato,  feasted  by  the  Sicilian  tyrant,  to-morrow  a 
Piogenes,  crawling  with  a  growl  into  his  tub.  He  lectures 
with  universal  applause  on  the  Vcrhiun  Mirifiaim  of  Reuchlin. 
He  forms  a  secret  association  for  the  promotion   of  occult 


62  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

science.  He  is  besieged  by  swarming  boors  in  some  Garde 
Doloureuse,  and  escapes  almost  by  miracle.  He  enters 
the  service  of  Margaret,  Regent  of  the  Netherlands,  then  that 
of  the  Emperor,  and  is  knighted  on  the  field  for  heroic  gallantry 
in  the  campaign  against  the  Venetians.  He  is  next  to  be 
heard  of  as  a  teacher  of  theology  at  Pavia.  Plunged  into 
poverty  by  the  reverses  of  war,  he  writes  for  comfort  a  mystical 
treatise  On  the  Threefold  Way  of  Knoiving  God.  The  hand  of 
the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  plucks  him  from  his  slough  of 
despond,  but  ere  long  he  is  again  homeless,  hungering,  often 
after  bread,  ever  after  praise  and  power.  At  the  court  of 
France,  the  Queen  Mother  shows  him  favour,  but  withholds 
the  honour  to  which  such  gifts  might  well  aspire.  Then 
appears  the  famous  book  On  the  Vanity  of  Arts  and  Sciences. 

It  was  wormwood  to  the  proud  spirit  of  Agrippa  to  be 
treated  as  a  mere  astrologer.  To  think  that  he  must  toil  in 
obscurity  like  a  gnome,  calculating  aspects,  sextile  and  quartile, 
reckoning  the  cusps  and  hours  of  the  houses  of  heaven,  to 
subserve  the  ambition  of  an  implacable  intriguante,  when  his 
valour  might  adorn  the  tourney  and  his  wisdom  sway  the 
council !  He  would  fain  have  been  in  France  what  that  great 
astrologer  of  the  previous  century,  Martins  Galeotti,had  been  in 
Hungary,  to  whom  the  Czar  of  Russia  and  the  Khan  of  Tartary 
were  said  to  have  sent  respectful  presents  of  more  than  royal 
magnificence  ;  who  was  ambassador  alike  of  monarchs  and  the 
stars ;  who  bore  a  share  in  the  statecraft  of  the  court  at  Buda, 
and  charging  abreast  with  the  crowned  helm  of  Matthias,  rode 
down  the  ranks  of  the  turbaned  infidel.  So  the  gallant  knight 
and  the  *  courtier  of  most  elegant  thread,'  the  archimage,  the 
philosopher,  the  divine,  became  for  awhile  a  sceptic  and  a 
Timon.  The  De  Vanitate  Scientiaruni  ravages,  with  a  wild 
Berserker  fury,  the  whole  domain  of  knowledge.  The  monk 
Ilsan  of  medieval  fable  did  not  more  savagely  trample  the  roses 


c,  4.]  Cornelius  Agrippa.  63 

in  the  enchanted  garden  of  Worms, — Pantagruel  did  not  more 
cruelly  roast  ■with  fire  his  six  hundred  and  nine  and  fifty 
vanquished  horsemen,  than  did  Agrippa  consume  with  satire 
every  profession  and  every  calling  among  men.  With  reason 
might  he  say  in  his  preface,  *  The  grammarians  will  rail  at  me 
— the  etymologists  will  derive  my  name  from  the  gout — the 
obstreperous  rhetoricians  will  plague  me  with  their  big  words 
and  inimical  gestures — the  intricate  geometrician  will  imprison 
me  in  his  triangles  and  tetragonals — the  cosmographer  will 
banish  rce  among  the  bears  to  Greenland.'  Scholastic 
fanaticism  could  never  pardon  the  man  whose  sarcasm  had  left 
nothing  standing,  save  the  Holy  Scriptures.  The  monks  and 
doctors  of  Lyons  hurled  back  his  tongue-bolts  with  the  dreaded 
cry  of  heresy.  His  disgrace  and  exile  they  could  compass, 
but  they  could  not  arrest  those  winged  words  or  bow  that 
dauntless  spirit. 

The  treatise  On  the  Threefold  Way  of  Knowing  God,  shows 
how,  by  Divine  illumination,  the  Christian  may  discern  the 
hidden  meanings  of  the  New  Testament,  as  the  Cabbalist 
evolves  those  of  the  Old.  It  teaches  the  way  in  which  the 
devout  mind  may  be  united  to  God,  and,  seeing  all  things  in 
Him,  and  participating  in  His  power,  may  even  now,  according 
to  the  measure  of  faith,  foretell  the  future  and  controul  the 
elements. 

The  De  Occulta  Fhi/osophia^  (a  youthful  work  re-written  in 
his  later  years)  treats  of  the  three  kinds  of  magic — the  Natural 
(the  science  of  sympathies  and  antipathies,  whereby  the  adept 
accelerates  or  modifies  the  process  of  nature  so  as  to  work 
apparent  miracles) ;  tlie  Celestial,  or  Mathematical  (astrology) ; 
and  the  Religious,  or  ceremonial  (theurgy). 

Once  on  a  time,  the  savans  were  sorely  puzzled  by  certain 

*  .See  Car.-iere  (pp.  89-114),  to  character  of  this  and  the  preccdhig 
whom  I  am  indebted  as  regards  tlie      work,  having  had  access  to  neither. 


64  TJieosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vui. 

irregular  holes  on  the  front  of  an  ancient  temple.  One,  more 
sagacious  than  the  rest,  suggested  that  these  indentations  might 
be  the  marks  of  nails  used  to  fasten  to  the  stone  metallic  plates 
representing  Greek  characters.  And,  in  fact,  lines  drawn  from 
one  point  to  the  next  were  found  to  form  letters,  and  the  name 
of  the  deity  stood  disclosed.  In  like  manner,  the  student  of 
natural  magic  sought  to  decipher  the  secret  language  of  the 
universe,  by  tracing  out  those  lines  of  sympathy  which  linked 
in  a  mysterious  kindred  objects  the  most  remote.  It  was  be- 
lieved that  the  fields  of  space  were  threaded  in  every  direction 
by  the  hidden  highways  of  magnetic  influence  ;  traversed  from 
all  points  by  an  intricate  network  of  communication  uniting 
the  distant  and  the  near — the  celestial  and  terrestrial  worlds. 
Science  was  charged  with  the  office  of  discovering  and  applying 
those  laws  of  harmony  and  union  which  connect  the  substances 
of  earth  with  each  other  and  with  the  operation  of  the  stars. 
Through  all  the  stages  of  creation  men  thought  they  saw  the 
inferior  ever  seeking  and  tending  towards  the  higher  nature, 
and  the  order  above  shedding  influence  on  that  below.  The 
paternal  sun  laid  a  hand  of  blessing  on  the  bowed  head  of  the 
corn.  The  longing  dews  passed  heavenward,  up  the  Jacob's 
ladder  of  the  sunbeams,  and  entering  among  the  bright  minis- 
teries  of  the  clouds,  came  down  in  kindly  showers.  Each 
planet,  according  to  its  mind  or  mood,  shed  virtues  healing  or 
harmful  into  minerals  and  herbs.  All  sweet  sounds,  moving  by 
the  mystic  laws  of  number,  were  an  aspiration  towards  the 
music  of  the  spheres — a  reminiscence  of  the  universal  har- 
monies. The  air  was  full  of  phantasms  or  images  of  material 
objects.  These,  said  Agrippa,  entering  the  mind,  as  the  air  the 
body,  produce  presentiments  and  dreams.  All  nature  is 
oracular.  A  cloudy  chill  or  sultry  lull  are  the  Delphi  and 
Dodona  of  birds  and  kine  and  creeping  things.  But  the  sense 
of  sinful  man  is  dull.     The  master  of  the  hidden  wisdom  may 


c.  4.1  Microcosm  and  Macrocosm.  65 

facilitate  the  descent  of  benign  influences,  and  aid  the  travail- 
ing creation,  sighing  for  renewal.  It  is  for  him  to  marry  (in  the 
figurative  language  of  the  time)  the  '  lower  and  the  higher 
potencies,  the  terrestrial  and  the  astral,  as  doth  the  husband- 
man the  vine  unto  the  elm.'  The  sage  can  make  himself  felt  in 
the  upper  realm,  as  on  the  earth,  by  touching  some  chord 
whose  vibration  extends  into  the  skies.  From  the  law  ot 
sympathy  comes  the  power  of  amulets  and  philtres,  images  anc' 
ointments,  to  produce  love  or  hate,  health  or  sickness,  t^ 
arrest  the  turning  arms  of  the  distant  mill,  or  stay  the  wings  ol 
the  pinnace  on  the  Indian  seas.     Such  was  Agrippa's  world. 

According  to  Baptista  Porta,  a  certain  breath  of  life,  or  soul 
of  the  world,  pervades  the  whole  organism  of  the  universe, 
determines  its  sympathies,  and  imparts,  when  received  into  the 
soul  of  the  inquirer,  the  capacity  for  magical  research.  Simi- 
larly, in  the  theory  of  Agrippa,  the  fifth  element,  or  sether,  is 
the  breath  of  this  World-Soul.  Within  the  spirit  thus  animat- 
ing the  body  of  the  world  lie  those  creative  powers,  or  qualities, 
which  are  the  producers  of  all  things  visible.  The  instruments 
of  this  universal  plastic  Power  are  the  stars  and  the  spirits  c  / 
the  elements. 

With  all  the  theosophists  man  is  a  microcosm — the  harmo- 
nized epitome  of  the  universe  :  a  something  representative  of 
all  that  is  contained  in  every  sphere  of  being,  is  lodged  in  his 
nature.  Thus  he  finds  sympathies  everywhere,  and  potentially 
knows  and  operates  everywhere.  Since,  therefore,  the  inmost 
ground  of  his  being  is  in  God,  and  the  rest  of  his  nature  is  a 
miniature  of  the  universe, — a  true  self-knowledge  is,  propor. 
tionately,  at  once  a  knowledge  of  God  and  of  creation.  The 
sources  of  Religion  and  of  Science  are  alike  within  him. 

Agrippa  borrows  from  the  Phredrus  four  kinds  of  inspiration, 
—the  Poetic,  the  Dionysian  (revealing  visions),  the  Apollinian 
(imparting  hidden  wisdom),  and  that  of  which  ascendant  Venus 

VOL.  ir.  V 


66  Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation.     [«.  vnt. 

is  the  pure  patroness — Rapturous  Love,  which  carries  us  to 
heaven  in  ecstasy,  and  in  the  mystic  union  with  Deity  discloses 
things  unutterable.  He  compares  the  soul,  as  ordinarily  in  the 
body,  to  a  light  within  a  dark  lantern.  In  moments  of  mystical 
exaltation,  it  is  taken  out  of  its  prison-house,  the  divine  element 
is  emancipated,  and  rays  forth  immeasurably,  transcending 
space  and  time.  His  Platonism,  like  that  of  so  many,  led  him 
'  from  the  sensual  and  the  formal  to  the  ideal.  Greek  was,  with 
reason,  accounted  dangerous.  Plato  was  a  reformer  side  by 
side  with  Luther  among  the  Germans.  How  loathsome  was 
clerkly  vice  beside  the  contemplative  ideal  of  Plato. 

In  those  days  almost  every  great  scholar  was  also  a  great 
traveller.  The  wanderings  of  Agrippa  and  his  theosophic 
brethren  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  progress  and  diff'jsion 
of  occult  science.  These  errant  professors  of  magic,  like  those 
aerial  travellers  the  insects,  carried  everywhere  with  them  the 
\  pollen  of  their  mystic  Lil)^,  the  symbol  of  theosophy,  and  sowed 
the  fructifying  particles  in  minds  of  kindred  growth  wherever 
they  came.  Tlieir  very  crosses  and  buffetings,  if  they  marred 
their  plans  of  study,  widened  their  field  of  observation ;  were 
fertile  in  suggestions ;  compelled  to  new  resources,  and  multi- 
plied their  points  of  view, — as  a  modern  naturalist,  interrupted 
during  his  observant  morning's  walk,  and  driven  under  a  tree 
by  a  shower,  may  find  unexpected  compensation  in  the  discovery 
of  a  new  moss  upon  its  bark,  or  a  long-sought  fly  among  its 
dropping-leaves. 

Cower.  Agrippa's  philosophy  gives  us  a  highly  imaginative 
view  of  the  world. 

Atherton.  a  beautiful  romance, — only  surpassed  by  the 
actual  results  of  modern  discovery. 

WiLLouGHBY.  In  those  days  every  fancied  likeness  was  con- 
strued into  a  law  of  relationship  :    every    semblance   became 


c.  4.)  Religion  and  Sciiiicc.  •  ()-: 

speedily  reality; — somewhat  as  the  Chinese  believe  that  sundry 
fantastic  rocks  in  one  of  their  districts,  which  are  shaped  like 
rude  sculptures  of  strange  beasts,  do  actually  enclose  animals 
of  corresponding  form.  And  as  for  the  links  of  connexion 
supposed  to  constitute  bonds  of  mysterious  sympathy,  they  are 
about  as  soundly  deduced  as  that  connexion  which  our  old 
popular  superstition  imagined,  between  a  high  wind  on  Shrove 
Tuesday  night,  and  mortality  among  learned  men  and  fish. 

GowER.  And  yet  how  fascinating  those  dreams  of  science. 
What  a  charm,  for  instance,  in  a  botany  which  essayed  to  read 
in  the  sprinkled  or  veined  colours  of  petals  and  of  leaves,  in 
the  soft-flushing  hues,  the  winding  lines,  the  dashes  of  crimson, 
amethyst,  or  gold,  in  the  tracery  of  translucent  tissues  empur- 
pled or  incarnadine,— the  planetary  cipher,  the  hieroglyph  of  a 
star,  the  secret  mark  of  elementary  spirits — of  the  gliding 
Undine  or  the  hovering  S\lph. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  too,  in  great  measure,  with  anatomy  and 
psychology;  for  man  was  said  to  draw  life  from  the  central  sun, 
and  growth  from  the  moon,  while  im.agination  was  the  gift  of 
INIercur}',  and  wrath  burned  down  to  him  out  of  Mars.  He 
was  fashioned  from  the  stars  as  well  as  from  the  earth,  and 
born  the  lord  of  both. 

Atherton.  This  close  connexion  between  the  terrestrial  and 
sidereal  worlds  was  to  aid  in  the  approxintation  of  man  to  God. 
The  aim  was  noble — to  marry  Natural  Science,  the  lower,  to 
Revealed  Religion,  the  higher;  elevating  at  once  the  world  and 
man— the  physical  and  the  spiritual ;  drawing  more  close  the 
golden  chain  which  binds  the  world  to  the  footstool  of  the 
eternal  throne.  While  a  spirit  dwelt  in  all  nature,  transform- 
ing and  restoring,  and  benign  influences,  entering  into  the  sub- 
stances and  organisms  of  earth,  blessed  them  according  to  their 
capacities  of  blessing  (transforming  some  with  ease  to  higher 
forms  ot  beauty,  labouring  long,  and  almost  lost  in  the  gross- 

I'-  2 


68  TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b  vm. 

ness  and  stubbornness  of  others),  so  also  in  the  souls  of  men 
wrought  the  Divine  Spirit,  gladly  welcomed  by  the  lowly- 
hearted,  darkly  resisted  by  the  proud,  the  grace  of  God  here 
an  odour  of  life,  and  there  made  a  deepening  of  death  upon 
death. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  How  close  their  parallel  between  the  laws  of 
receptivity  in  the  inner  world  and  in  the  outer.  They  brought 
their  best,  faithfully — these  magi, — gold  and  frankincense  and 
myrrh. 

GowER.  Talking  of  sympathies,  I  have  felt  myself  for  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour  rapidly  coming  into  rapport  with  those 
old  poet-philosophers.  I  seem  to  thirst  with  them  to  pierce 
the  mysteries  of  nature.  I  imagine  myself  one  of  their  aspiring 
brotherhood.  I  say,  to  the  dead  let  nature  be  dead ;  to  me  she 
"jhall  speak  her  heart.  The  changeful  expression,  the  speechless 
gestures  of  this  world,  the  languors  and  convulsions  of  the 
elements,  the  frowns  and  smiles  of  the  twin  firmaments,  shall 
have  their  articulate  utterance  for  my  ear.  With  the  inward 
eye  I  see — here  more  dim,  there  distinct — the  fine  network  of 
sympathetic  influences  playing  throughout  the  universe,  as  the 
dancing  meshes  of  the  water-shadows  on  the  sides  of  a  basin 
of  marble 

WiLLOUGHBY,  (to  Atkcrtoii,  tvitJi  a  grotesque  expression  of 
pity.)     He's  off !     Almost  out  of  sight  already. 

GowER,  [apparently  unconscious  of  the  interruption.)  Yes, 
I  will  know  what  legends  of  the  old  elemental  wars  are  stored 
within  yon  grey  promontory,  about  whose  grandsire  knees  the 
waves  are  gambolling  ;  and  what  is  the  story  of  the  sea — what 
are  the  passions  of  the  deep  that  work  those  enamoured  sleeps 
and  jealous  madnesses  ;  and  what  the  meaning  of  that  thunder- 
music  which  the  hundred-handed  surf  smites  out  from  the  ebon 
or  tawny  keys  of  rock  and  of  sand  along  so  many  far-winding 
solitary  shores.     I  will  know  what  the  mountains  dream  of 


c.  4.]  Wakijig  Dreams  of  Science.  69 

when,  under  the  summer  haze,  the}^  talk  in  then- sleep,  and  the 
common  car  can  perceive  only  the  tinkle  of  the  countless  rills 
sliding  down  their  sides.  There  shall  be  told  me  how  first  the 
Frost-King  won  his  empire,  and  made  the  vanquished  heights 
of  earth  to  pass  under  those  ice-harrows  which  men  call  glaciers. 
Atherton.  '  The  truant  Fancy  was  a  wanderer  ever  !' 
GowER.  On  the  commonest  things  I  see  astral  influences 
raining  brightness — no  homeliness  without  some  sparkle  of  the 
\ipper  glory ; — as  the  wain  and  shoon  of  the  peasant  on  some 
autumn  night  grow  phosphorescent,  and  are  sown  with  electric 
jewellery.  With  purged  eyesight  I  behold  the  nascent  and  uir 
fledged  virtues  of  herbs  and  minerals  that  are  growing  folded 
in  this  swaying  nest  named  earth,  look  hungering  up  to  their 
parent  stars  that  hover  ministering  above,  radiant  in  the  top- 
most boughs  of  the  Mundane  Tree.  I  look  into  the  heart  of 
the  Wunderberg,  and  see,  far  down,  the  palaces  and  churches 
of  an  under-world,  see  branching  rivers  and  lustrous  gardens 
where  gold  and  silver  flow  and  flower;  I  behold  the  Wild 
women,  and  the  jealous  dwarfs,  and  faraway,  the  forlorn  haunts 
of  the  cairn-people,  harping  under  their  mossy  stones  ;  while 
from  the  central  depths  sounds  up  to  me  the  rolling  litany  of 
those  giants  who  wait  and  worship  till  the  Great  Restitution- 
Day.  There  among  those  wilderness  rocks  I  discern,  under  a 
hood  of  stone,  a  hermit  Potency,  waiting  for  one  to  lead  him 
up  to  the  sunny  multitudinous  surface-world,  and  send  him 
forth  to  bless  mankind.  O  long-tarrying  Virtue,  be  it  mine  to 
open  the  doors  of  thy  captivity !  Thou  mineral  Might,  thou 
fragment  from  the  stones  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  thou  shalt 
lodge  no  more  in  vain  among  us  !  I  have  felt  thy  secret 
growing  up  within  my  soul,  as  a  shoot  of  the  tree  of  life,  and 
therewithal  will  I  go  fortli  and  heal  the  nations  !  * 

*  This  distressing  outbreak  on  the  part  of  Gower  will  scarcely  seem  extravagant 
to  those  who  remembsr  how  intensely  poetical  were  many  of  the  theosophic 


70  Thcosopliv  in  the  Age  of  the  Rcforuiation.     [u. 


Atherton.  No,  not  till  you  have  had  some  supper.  I  hear 
the  bell. 

GowER.  It  is  the  nineteenth  century,  then?  Ah,  yes,  I 
remember. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Away,  you  rogue  ! 

hypotheses.  Analogies  whicli  would  only  occur  to  imaginative  men  in  their 
liours  of  reverie  were  solidified  into  principles  and  enrolled  in  the  code  of 
nature.  _  Nothing  could  be  more  opposite  to  the  sifting  process  of  modern  in- 
vestigation than  the  fanciful  combination  and  impersonation  of  those  days,— 
more  akin,  by  far,  to  mythology  than  to  science.  Conceits  such  as  the  follow- 
ing are  those  of  the  poet,— and  of  the  poet  as  far  gone  in  madness  as  Plato 
could  wisli  him. 

Tlie  waters  of  this  world  are  mad  ;  it  is  in  tlieir  raving  that  they  rush  so 
violently  to  and  fro  along  the  great  channels  of  the  earth. 

Fire  would  not  have  burned,  darkness  had  not  been,  but  for  Adam's  fall. 
There  is  a  hot  fire  and  a  cold.     Death  is  a  cold  fire.— Bchinen. 

All  things— even  metals,  stones,  and  meteors — have  sense  and  imagination, 
and  a  certain  'fiducial' knowledge  of  God  in  them. 

The  arctic  pole  drav.s  water  by  its  axle-tree,  and  these  waters  break  forth 
again  at  the  axle-tree  of  the  antarctic  pole. 

Earthquakes  and  thunder  are  the  work  of  djemons  or  angels. 
The  lightnings  without  thunder  are,  as  it  were,  the  falling  flowers   of  the 
'Eestival'  (or  summer)  stars. — Paracelsus. 

Hail  and  snow  are  the  fruits  of  the  stars,  proceeding  from  them  as  flowers  and 
blossoms  from  herb  or  tree. — Paracelsus. 

Night  is,  in  reality,  brought  on  by  the  influence  of  dark  stars,  which  rav  out 
darkness,  as  the  others  light. — Parace/sus. 

The  final  fires  will  transform  the  earth  into  crystal.  (A  summary  expression 
for  one  of  Behmen's  doctrines.) 

The  moon,  planets,  and  stars  are  of  the  same  quality  with  the  lustrous 
precious  stones  of  our  earth,  and  of  such  a  nature,  that  wandering  spirits  of  the 
air  see  in  them  things  to  come,  as  in  a  magic  mirror ;  and  hence  their  gift  of 
prophecy. 

In  addition  to  the  terrestrial,  man  has  a  sidereal  body,  which  stands  in  con- 
nexion with  the  stars.  When,  as  in  sleep,  tlu's  sidereal'body  is  more  free  than 
usual  from  the  elements,  it  holds  converse  with  the  stars,  and  may  acquire  a 
knowledge  of  future  events.— Parace/sus.  See  Henry  More's  Enthusiasmus 
Tnutnpliatus,  J  44. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  reason  that  Men  do  not  doubt  of  many  things,  is,  that  they  never 
examine  common  Impressions  ;  they  do  not  dig  to  tlie  Root,  where  the  Faults 
and  Defects  lye  ;  they  only  debate  upon  the  Branches  :  Tliey  do  not  examine 
whether  such  and  such  a  thing  be  true,  but  if  it  has  been  so  and  so  understood. 
It  is  not  inquir'd  into,  wliether  Galen  has  said  anything  to  purpose,  but  whether 
be  has  said  so  or  so. — Montaigne. 

Willoughby's  Essay — Third  Evening. 

§  3.    Theophrastus  Paracelsus.  \ 

T~MJE  place  must  be  sriven  to  the  influence  of  that  medical 
Ishmael,  Paracelsus.  Born  m  1493  at  Emsiedeln,  near 
Zurich,  he  studied  medicine  at  Basle,  and  travelled  Europe  for 
fourteen  years  from  Sweden  to  Naples,  and  from  France  to 
Poland.  The  jealous  hatred  awakened  by  a  most  reasonable 
project  of  reform  drove  him  from  Basle  soon  after  his  return. 
Vituperated  and  vituperating,  he  became  a  wanderer  through- 
out Germany,  everywhere  forming,  or  followed  by,  successive 
groups  of  disciples.  He  died  at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  in 
a  little  inn — but  not,  as  report  has  long  said,  drunk  on  the 
taproom  floor; — a  victim,  more  probably,  to  the  vio- 
lence of  assailants  despatched  against  him  by  some  hostile 
physicians.^ 

Paracelsus  found  the  medical  profession  of  those  days  more 
disastrously  incompetent,  if  possible,  than  we  see  it  in  tne 
pages  of  Le  Sage  and  Moliere.  It  was  so  easy  of  entrance,  he 
complains,  as  to  become  the  tempting  resource  of  knavery  and 
ignorance  everywhere.     With  a  smattering  of  (jreek  a  doctor 

1  ^ee  Lessin^'s  Paracehns,  p.  i8. 


72  TheosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Refonnation.     [b.  vm 

might  be  finished  and  famous.  A  dead  language  was  to 
exorcise  deadly  maladies.  Diseases  were  encountered  by 
definitions,  and  fact  and  experiment  unheeded  amidst  disputes 
about  the  sense  of  Galen,  Hippocrates,  and  Avicenna.  When 
a  new  life  began  to  struggle  to  the  light  from  beneath  the 
ruins  of  scholasticism,  the  fearless  vehemence  of  such  a  nature 
became  its  appropriate  organ.  Paracelsus  was  the  first  to 
lecture  in  the  vernacular.  Instead  of  reading  and  commenting 
on  the  text  of  Galen,  or  extracting  fanciful  specifics  from 
Raymond  Lully,  or  John  de  Rupecissa,  he  resolved  to  observe 
and  judge  for  himself  wherever  the  ravages  of  disease  or  war 
might  furnish  him  with  facts.  Preposterous  as  many  of  his 
own  remedies  may  have  been,  he  merits  the  title  of  a  reformer 
in  effect  as  well  as  purpose.  He  applied,  with  great  success, 
mineral  preparations  before  unknown,  or  little  used ;  performed 
celebrated  cures  by  the  use  of  opium,  and  exposed  the 
fraudulent  pretensions  of  the  alchemist  and  the  astrologer. 
To  the  persecution  and  gross  abuse  of  the  profession  he  replied 
in  torrents  of  undiluted  and  inexhaustible  Billingsgate.  While 
his  velvet-cloaked  brethren,  with  faces  blandly  inane  or  por- 
tentously inscrutable,  mounted,  with  step  of  cat-like  softness, 
to  the  chamber  of  the  obese  burgomaster  or  the  fashionable 
lady,  Paracelsus  gloried  in  grandiloquent  shabbiness  and 
boisterous  vulgarity.  He  boasted  that  he  had  picked  up  many 
a  hint  while  chatting  as  an  equal  with  pedlars,  waggoners,  and 
old  women.  He  loved  to  drain  his  can  on  the  ale-bench 
before  wayside  hostelries  with  boors  such  as  Ostade  has 
painted.  Ragged  and  dusty,  footing  it  with  his  knapsack  on 
his  back  under  a  broiling  sun,  he  would  swear  that  there  lay 
more  wisdom  in  his  beard  than  in  all  the  be-doctored  wiseacres 
of  all  the  universities  of  Europe. 

On  the  basis  of  principles  substantially  the  same  with  those 
represented  by  Agrippa,  Paracelsus  developed,  in  his  own  way. 


c.  5-1 


Paracelsus.  73 


the  doctrine  of  signatures,  and  the  relationships  of  the  macro- 
cosm and  the  microcosm. 

The  special  illumination  of  the  Holy  Ghost  was  not  more 
essential  to  the  monastic  perfection  of  preceding  mystics,  than 
to  the  success  of  the  theosophist  in  that  devout  pursuit  of 
science  inculcated  by  Paracelsus.  The  true  Physician— he  who 
would  be  wise  indeed  in  the  mysteries  of  nature,  must  seek  with 
ceaseless  importunity  the  light  that  cometh  from  above.  In  the 
Scriptures,  and  in  the  Cabbala,  lies  the  key  to  all  knowledge. 
Medicine  has  four  pillars  :  (i)  Philosophy,  generally  equivalent, 
as  he  uses  it,  to  physiology,— the  study  of  the  true  nature  of 
material  substances  in  their  relation  to  the  microcosm,  man ; 
(2)  Astronomy,  embracing  especially  the  influences  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  on  the  human  frame ;  (3)  Alchemy,  not  gold- 
making,  but  the  preparation  of  specifics— chemistry  applied  to 
medicine ;  (4)  Religion,  whereby  the  genuine  professor  of  the 
healing  art  is  taught  of  God,  and  works  in  reUance  on,  and 
union  with.  Him."  In  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  mystics  he 
describes  the  exaltation  of  one  whose  soul  is  inwardly  absorbed, 
so  that  the  ordinary  operation  of  the  external  senses  is  sus- 
pended. A  man  thus  divinely  intoxicated,  lost  in  thoughts  so 
profound,  may  seem,  says  Paracelsus,  a  mere  fool  to  the  men 
of  this  world,  but  in  the  eyes  of  God  he  is  the  wisest  of  man- 
kind, a  partaker  of  the  secrecy  of  the  Most  High-^*  Like  Agrippa 
(and  with  as  good  reason)  Paracelsus  Jays  great  stress  on  Ima- 
gination, using  the  term,  apparently,  to  express  the  highest 
realization  of  faith.  Bacon  observes  that  Imagination  is  with 
Paracelsus  almost  equivalent  to  Fascination.  He  speaks  of  the 
Trinity  as  imaged  in  man,  in  the  Heart,  {Gcmilth),  in  Faith, 
and  in  Imagination,— the  three  forms  of  that  spiritual  nature  in 

2  Lessinc^'s  Paracelsus,  §  26.  Godfrey  Arnold,  Kirchen-tind-Kctzer. 

3  Language   to  Uiis  effect  is   cited      gcschichte^  '\  h.  ii.  p.  309. 
among  the  copious  extracts  given  bv 


74  Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [d.  vui. 

us  which  he  declares  a  fiery  particle  from  the  Divine  Substance. 
By  the  disposition  of  the  Heart  we  come  to  God ;  by  Faith  to 
Christ ;  and  by  Imagination  we  receive  the  Holy  Spirit.  Thus 
blessed  (did  we  but  truly  know  our  own  hearts)  nothing  would 
be  impossible  to  us.  This  is  the  true  magic,  the  gift  of  Faith, 
which,  were  its  strength  sufficient,  might  even  now  cast  out 
devils,  heal  the  sick,  raise  the  dead,  and  remove  mountains.* 

In  the  sixteenth  century  we  still  trace  the  influence  of  that 
doctrine,  so  fertile  in  mysticism,  which  Anselm  bequeathed  to 
the  schoolmen  of  the  middle  age.  We  are  to  know  by  ascend- 
ing to  the  fount  of  being,  and  in  the  primal  Idea,  whence  all 
ideas  flow,  to  discern  the  inner  potency  of  all  actual  existence. 
But  in  Paracelsus  we  see  especial  prominence  given  to  two  new 
ideas  which  greatly  modify,  and  apparently  facilitate  the  re- 
searches of  theosoph)^  One  of  these  is  the  theory  of  divine 
manifestation  by  Contraries, — teaching  (instead  of  the  old 
division  of  Being  and  Non-being)  the  development  of  the  primal 
ground  of  existence  by  antithesis,  and  akin,  in  fact,  to  the 
principle  of  modern  speculative  philosophy,  according  to  which 
the  Divine  Being  is  the  absorption  {Aifhebung)  of  those  con- 
traries which  his  self-evolution,  or  lusiis  amoris^  has  posited. 
This  doctrine  is  the  key-note  in  the  system  of  Jacob  Behmen. 
The  other  is  the  assumption  that  man — the  micro-cosm,  is,  as  it 
were,  a  miniature  of  the  macro-cosm — the  great  outer  world, — ■ 
a  little  parliament  to  which  every  part  of  the  universe  sends  its 
deputy, — his  body  a  compound  from  the  four  circles  of  material 
existence, — his  animal  nature  correspondent  to,  and  dependent 
on,  the  upper  firmament, — and  his  spirit,  a  divine  efflux  where- 
in, though  fallen,  there  dwells  a  magnetic  tendency  towards  its 
source,   which   renders   redemption   possible   through   Christ. 

•'•  De  Occulta  Philosophia,  Prologus,  and  published  together  in  a  small 
p.  30,  and  p.  58.  This  is  one  of  the  volume,  Basle,  1584.  Comp.  alsQ 
three  treatises  edited  by  Gerard  Dorn,      Arnold,  Th.  iv.  p.  145. 


c.  5.]  The  True  Magic. 


73 


There  is  nothing,  accordingly,  in  the  heavens  above,  or  in  the 
earth  beneath,  which  may  not  be  found  in  the  minor  world  o( 
man.  On  this  principle,  further,  depends  the  whole  system  of 
signatures  in  its  application  to  the  cure  of  human  malady/ 

Paracelsus  defines  true  magic  as  the  knowledge  of  the  hidden 
virtues  and  operations  of  natural  objects.  The  Cabbala  imparts 
instruction  concerning  heavenly  mysteries,  and  teaches  the 
loftiest  approximation  to  the  Supreme.  By  the  combination  of 
these  sources  of  knowledge  we  come  to  understand,  and  can 
partially  produce,  that  marriage  between  heavenly  influences  and 
terrestrial  objects,  called,  in  the  language  of  theosophy,  Gama- 
hea."  True  magic  is  founded  solely  'on  the  Ternary  and  Trinity 
of  God,'  and  works  in  harmony  with  that  universal  life  which, 
under  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  animates  all  nature, — 
'-  even  the  granite,  the  ocean,  and  the  flower.  The  magic  of  Para- 
celsus disclaims  the  use  of  all  ceremonies,  conjurations,  bannings, 
and  blessings,  and  will  rest  solely  on  the  power  of  that  faith  to 
which  the  promise  was  given,  that  spirits  should  be  subject  to  it, 
and  mountains  plucked  up  at  its  fiat.'  We  are  here  far  enough 
from  the  theurgic  ritual  of  lamblichus.  But  large  room  still 
remained  for  superstitious  practice,  and  Paracelsus  could  not 
refuse  his  faith  to  the  potency  of  certain  magical  words,  of 
waxen  images,  and  of  pentacula  inscribed  with  magic  characters. 
The  universal  life  of  nature  was  mythologically  personified  in 
the  sylphs  and  gnomes,  the  salamanders  and  undines,  somewhat 
as  the  thought  of  supernatural  presence  found  its  representation 

^  Dorn's    Dicfiona?  iiiin    Paracelsi  Art.    Magia.         Talis      influentUrum 

(Frankfort,  1583),   Art.   Microcosmus.  coelestiumconjunctio  vel  impressio  qua 

Also  the  Secrctum  Magicum  of  Para-  operanturin  iiiferiora  corpora  coelestes 

celsus,  entire  in  Arnold,  p.  150.     The  vires,     Ganiahea    Magis,    vel    matri- 

implanted  image  of  tlie  Trinity,  and  monium  virium  et  proprietatum  coeles- 

the  innate  tendency  in  man  toward  his  tium   cum    elementaribus   corporibus, 

Divine  Origin,  are  familiar  to   us   as  dicta    fuit    olim. — Paracelsi    Aurora 

favourite  doctrines  with  the  mystics  of  Fhilosophoruin,     cap.    iv.    p.    24    (ed. 

tlie  fourteenth  century.  Dorn). 

'■'  De  Occ.  Phil.  cap.  iv.   p.   45,  and  ''  Aurora  Phil.   loc.  cit.  ;  De  Oc(. 

gap.  xi.  p.  78.     Also,    Diet.  Parjccls.  Phil.  i.  ii.  ;  and  xi.  p.  79. 


"^^  Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Refonnation.     [h.  vm. 

in  the  nymphs,  the  nereids,  and  the  hamadryads,  of  ancient 
Grecian  fable.' 

In  the  chemistry  of  Paracelsus  all  matter  is  composed,  in 
varying  proportions,  of  salt — the  firm  coherent  principle,  of 
quicksilver — the  fliiid,  and  of  sulphur — the  fiery,  or  combus- 
tible.' 

The  theory  of  signatures  proceeded  on  the  supposition  that 
ever}^  creature  bears,  in  some  part  of  its  structure  or  outward 
conformation,  the  indication  of  the  character  or  virtue  inherent 
in  it — the  representation,  in  fact,  of  its  idea  or  soul.  Southey 
relates,  in  his  Doctor^  a  legend,  according  to  whicli  he  wlio 
should  drink  the  blood  of  a  certain  unknown  animal  would  be 
enabled  to  hear  the  voice  and  understand  the  speech  of  plants. 
Such  a  man  might  stand  on  a  mountain  at  sunrise,  and  hearken 
to  their  language,  from  the  delicate  voices  of  wild  flowers  and 
grass  blades  in  the  dew,  to  the  large  utterance  of  the  stately 
trees  making  their  obeisance  in  the  fresh  morning  airs ; — might 
hear  each  enumerating  its  gifts  and  virtues,  and  blessing  the 
Creator  for  his  bestowments.  The  knowledge  thus  imparted  by 
a  charm,  the  student  of  sympathies  sought  as  the  result  of  care- 
ful observation.  He  essayed  to  read  the  character  of  plants  by 
signs  in  their  organization,  as  the  professor  of  palmistry  an- 
nounced that  of  men  by  the  lines  of  the  hand.  Such  indications 
were  sometimes  traced  from  the  resemblance  of  certain  parts  of 
a  plant  to  portions  of  the  human  frame,  sometimes  they  were 
sought  in  the  more  recondite  relations  of  certain  plants  to 
certain  stars.     Thus  citrons,  according  to  Paracelsus,  are  good 

^  See  De  Occ.  Phil.  cap.  v.    Magical  communicate  to    his    fabricator    all 

powers  are  ascribed  to  images,  p.  85.  manner  of  secrets  and   mysteries  of 

A  collection  of  talismanic    figures  is  science. 

appended    to   the    treatise.      In    the  ^  The    three    continents — Europe, 

Thcsaiinis    Pliilosophorum    is   to   be  Asia,  and   Africa — were  said  to  repre- 

found  (p.  145)     the    arcanum  of    the  sent  these  three  constituent  principles 

Homunculus  and  the  Universal  Tine-  respectively  ;  the  stars  contain  them, 

ture.     The  Honumculus  is  said  to  be  as  in  so  many  vials  ;  the  Penates  (a 

a   mannikin,     constructed  by   magic,  race  of    sapient    but   mortal    spirits) 

receiving  his  life  and  substance  from  employ  them  for  the  manufacture  of 

an  artificial    principle,    and    able  to  thunder. 


c.  5-]  Theological  Chcinistfy.  77 

for  heart  affections  because  they  are  heart-sliaped;  and  because, 
moreover,  they  have  the  colour  of  the  sun,  and  the  heart  is,  in 
a  sort,  the  sun  of  the  body.  Similarly,  the  saphcna  ripanim  is 
to  be  applied  to  fresh  wounds,  because  its  leaves  are  spotted 
as  with  flecks  of  blood.  A  species  of  dcnfaria,  whose  roots 
resemble  teeth,  is  a  cure  for  toothache  and  scurvy,^" 

The  theosophists,  working  on  principles  very  similar  to  those 
•of  the  alchemists,  though  with  worthier  and  larger  purpose,  in- 
herited the  extraordinary  language  of  their  predecessors.  That 
wisdom  of  Gamahea,  which  was  to  explain  and  facilitate  the 
union  of  the  celestial  and  terrestrial  in  the  phenomena  and  pro- 
cesses of  nature,  naturally  produced  a  phraseology  which  was  a 
confused  mixture  of  theological,  astrological,  and  chemical  terms. 
To  add  to  the  obscurity,  every  agent  or  process  was  veiled 
under  symbolic  names  and  fantastic  metaphors,  frequently 
changing  with  the  caprice  of  the  adept.  Thus  the  white  wine 
of  Lully  is  called  by  Paracelsus  the  glue  of  the  eagle ;  and 
LuUy's  red  wine  is,  with  Paracelsus,  the  blood  of  the  Red  Lion. 
Often  the  metaphor  runs  into  a  kind  of  parable,  as  with  Bernard 
of  Treviso.  He  describes  what  is  understood  to  be  the  solution 
of  gold  in  quicksilver,  under  the  regimen  of  Saturn,  leaving  a 
residuum  of  black  paste,  in  the  following  oriental  style  : — 

'The  king,  when  he  comes  to  the  fountain,  leaving  all 
strangers  behind  him,  enters  the  bath  alone,  clothed  in  golden 
robes,  which  he  puts  off,  and  gives  to  Saturn,  his  first  chamber- 
lain, from  whom  he  receiveth  a  black  velvet  suit.' " 

'"  Lcssing's  Paracehns,  §  58.     Tliis  astronomical  principles.     Thus,  Mars 

fanciful    kind   of    physiognomy    dis-  rules  the  thumb,  wherein  lies  strength  ; 

places  theurgy,  among  these  inc[uirers.  Jupiter,  the  forefinger,    whence  come 

It    led,    at    least,    to   much   accurate  auguries  of  fame  and  honour,  &c. 

observation.     It  was  a  sign  of  health  "  See   Lives  of  the    Alchemist/cat 

when  the  chafing-dish  and  conjuring-  Philosophers.     This   book   contains  a 

book  were  forsaken  for  the  woods  and  collection     of    the    most    celebrated 

fields.      Cardan,    who   repudiates  the  treatises  on  the  theory  and  practice  of 

charge  of  having  ever  employed  incan-  the  Hermetic  Art.     The  passage  from 

tations    or    sought    intercourse    with  Bernard  is  in   The  Book  of  Eitenceus 

dcemons,     endeavours      to     establish  Pkilalethes,  p.  166. 
chiromancy  on  what  were  then  called 


llicosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,    [b.  vnt 


In  like  manner,  in  the  Secretum  Magicum  attributed  ( to 
Paracelsus),  we  find  mention  of  the  chemical  Virgin  Mary,  of 
chemical  deaths  and  resurrections,  falls  and  redemptions, 
adopted  from  theological  phraseology.  We  read  of  the  union 
of  the  philosophic  Sol,— Quintessentia  Solis,  or  Fifth  Wisdom 
of  Gold,  with  his  Father  in  the  Golden  Heaven,  whereby  im- 
perfect substances  are  brought  to  the  perfection  of  the  King- 
dom of  Gold.'" 

The  conclusion  of  Weidenfeld's  treatise  on  the  Green  Lion 
of  Paracelsus  may  suffice  as  a  specimen  of  this  fanciful  mode  of 
expression,  which  can  never  speak  directly,  and  which,  adopted 
by  Jacob  Behmen,  enwraps  his  obscure  system  in  sevenfold 
darkness  : — 

'  Let  us  therefore  desist  from  further  pursuit  of  the  said  Green 
Lion  which  we  have  pursued  through  the  meads  and  forest  of 
Diana,  through  the  way  of  philosopical  Saturn,  even  to  the 
vineyards  of  Philosophy.  This  most  pleasant  place  is  allowed 
the  disciples  of  this  art  to  recreate  themselves  here,  after  so 
much  pains  and  sweat,  dangers  of  fortune  and  life,  exercising 
the  work  of  women  and  the  sports  of  children,  being  content 
with  the  most  red  blood  of  the  Lion,  and  eating  the  white  or 
red  grapes  of  Diana,  the  wine  of  which  being  purified,  is  the 
most  secret  secret  of  all  the  more  secret  Chymy ;  as  beino-  the 
white  or  red  wine  of  Lully,  the  nectar  of  the  ancients,  and  their 
only  desire,  the  peculiar  refreshment  of  the  adopted  sons,  but 
the  heart-breaking  and  stuml)lingblock  of  the  scornful  and 
ignorant.' " 

J=  Thus,  Cardan  declared  that  the  Lord  to  the  divinely-ordained  in- 
law of  Moses  was  from  Saturn  ;  that  fiuences  of  the  planetary  system. 
of  Christ,  from  Jupiter  and  Mercury.  ^^  This  passage  is  from 'the  Annota- 
Over  that  of  Mahomet  presided,  in  tions  of  Weidenfeld  on  the  Green  Lion 
conjunction,  Sol  and  Mars  ;  while  of  Paracelsus  ;  Lives  of  the  Alchem. 
Mars  and  the  Moon  ruled  idolatry.  Phil.  p.  201.  The  Thesaurus  The- 
It  was  thought  no  impi-.-ty— only  a  saurorum  contains  another  choice 
legitimate  explanation,  to  attribute  the  specimen  of  the  same  sort,  p.  124. 
supernatural  wisdom  and  works  of  our 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Men.  I  pray  thee  tell  me, 
For  thou  art  a  great  dreamer — 

Chi.   I  can  dream,  sir. 
If  I  eat  well  and  sleep  well. 

ATeii.  Was  it  never  by  dream  or  apparition  opened  to  thee— 
What  the  other  world  was,  or  Elysium  ? 
Didst  never  travel  in  thy  sleep? 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  The  Atad  Lover. 

Willoughby's  Essay — Fourth  Evening. 

§  4.  Jacob  Behmoi  and  /lis  Aurora. 

T    ET  us  now  crave  acquaintance   with   tliat  most  notable 
"^     thcosophist,  Jacob  Behmen. 

It  is  evening,  and  in  the  little  town  of  Gorlitz  the  business 
of  the  day  is  over.  The  shopkeepers  are  chatting  together 
before  their  doors,  or  drinking  their  beer  at  tables  set  out 
in  the  open  air;  and  comfortable  citizens  are  taking  Avife 
and  children  for  a  walk  beyond  the  town.  There  is  a  shoe- 
maker's shop  standing  close  to  the  bridge,  and  under  its  pro- 
jecting gable,  among  the  signs  and  samples  of  the  craft,  may 
be  read  the  name  of  Jacob  Boehme.  Within  this  house,  in  a 
small  and  scantily-furnished  room,  three  men  are  seated  at  a 
table  whereon  lie  a  few  books  and  papers  and  a  great  heap  of 
newly-gathered  plants  and  wild-flowers.  The  three  friends 
have  just  returned  from  a  long  ramble  in  the  fields  which  lie 
without  the  Neissethor.  That  little  man,  apparently  about 
forty  years  of  age,  of  withered,  almost  mean,  aspect,  with  low 
forehead,  prominent  temples,  hooked  nose,  short  and  scanty 
beard,  and  quick  blue  eyes,  who  talks  with  a  thin,  gentle  voice, 


8o  Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm 

is,  Jacob.^  On  one  side  of  him  sits  Dr.  Kober,  a  medical  man 
of  high  repute  in  Goditz.  He  it  is  who  gathered  in  their  walk 
these  flowers,  and  now  he  takes  up  one  of  them  from  time  to  time, 
and  asks  Behmen  to  conjecture,  from  its  form  and  colour,  its 
pecuHar  properties.  Often  has  he  to  exchange  looks  of  wonder 
with  his  learned  friend  on  the  other  side  the  table,  at  the 
marvellous  insight  of  their  uneducated  host.  This  third 
member  of  the  trio  is  Dr.  Balthasar  Walter,  the  Director  of  the 
Laboratory  at  Dresden,  a  distinguished  chemist,  who  has 
travelled  six  years  in  the  East,  has  mastered  all  the  scientific 
wisdom  of  the  West,  and  who  now  believes  that  his  long  search 
after  the  true  philosophy  has  ended  happily  at  last,  beneath  the 
roof  of  the  Gorlitz  shoemaker.  He,  too,  will  sometimes  pro- 
nounce a  Greek  or  an  Oriental  word,  and  is  surprised  to  find 
how  nearly  Behmen  divines  its  significance,  from  the  mere  sound 
and  the  movement  of  the  lips  in  the  formation  of  its  syllables.* 
When  Walter  utters  the  word  Idea,  Behmen  springs  up  in  a 
transport,  and  declares  that  the  sound  presented  to  him  the 
image  of  a  heavenly  virgin  of  surpassing  beauty.  The  conver- 
sation wanders  on — about  some  theosophic  question,  it  may  be, 
or  the  anxious  times,  or  the  spread  of  Behmen's  writings 
through  Silesia  and  Saxony,  with  the  persecutions  or  the 
praises  following;  while  good  Frau  Behmen,  after  putting  a 
youngster  or  two  to  bed,  is  busy  downstairs  in  the  kitchen,  pre- 
paring a  frugal  supper. 

Jacob  Behmen  was  born  at  the  village  of  Alt-Seidenberg,  near 
GorUtz,  in  the  year  1575.  As  a  child,  he  was  grave  and 
thoughtful  beyond  his  years.  The  wonders  of  fairy  tradition 
were  said  to  have  become  objects  of  immediate  vision  to  the 
boy,  as  were  the  mysteries  of  religion,  in  after  years,  to  the  man. 

^  The     personal     appearance     of      Franckenberg,  in  the  biography  pre- 
Behmen    is    thus    described    by    his      fixed  to  his  Works,  §  27. 
friend  and  biographer,  Abraham  von         -  See  Note  on  p.  88, 


c.  6]  CJlu'i'cJi  Militant.  81 

Among  the  weather-stained  boulders  of  a  haunted  hill,  the 
young  herd-boy  discovered  the  golden  hoard  of  the  mountain 
folk— fled  in  terror,  and  could  never  again  find  out  the  spot.^ 

While  not  yet  twenty,  Behmen  saw  life  as  a  travelling  ap- 
prentice. The  tender  conscience  and  the  pensive  temperament 
of  the  village  youth  shrank  from  the  dissolute  and  riotous  com- 
panionship of  his  fellow-craftsmen.  Like  George  Fox,  whom 
at  this  period  he  strongly  resembled,  he  found  the  Church 
scarcely  more  competent  than  the  world  to  furnish  the  balm 
whicli  should  soothe  a  sjjirit  at  once  excited  and  despondent. 
Among  the  clergy,  the  shameful  servility  of  some,  the  immoral 
life  of  others,  the  bigotry  of  almost  all,  repelled  him  on  every 
hand.  The  pulpit  was  the  whipping-post  of  imaginary  Papists 
and  Calvinists.  The  churches  were  the  fortified  places  in  the 
seat  of  war.  They  were  spiritually  what  ours  were  literally  in 
King  Stephen's  days,  when  the  mangonel  and  the  cross-bow 
bolts  stood  ready  on  the  battlemented  tower,  when  military 
stores  were  piled  in  the  crypt,  and  a  moat  ran  through  the 
churchyard.  The  Augsburg  Confession  and  the  Formula 
Concordice  were  appealed  to  as  though  of  inspired  authority. 
The  names  of  Luther  and  Melanchthon  were  made  the  end  of 
controversy  and  of  freedom.  The  very  principle  of  Protestant- 
ism was  forsaken  when  ecclesiastics  began  to  prove  their 
positions,  not  by  Scripture,  but  by  Articles  of  Faith.  So  Behmen 
wandered  about,  musing,  with  his  Bible  in  his  hand,  and 
grieved  sore  because  of  the  strife  among  Christian  brethren, 
because  evil  everywhere  was  spreading  and  fruitful,  and  good- 
ness so  rare  and  so  distressed  ;  because  he  saw,  both  near  and 
far  away,  such  seeming  waste  and  loss  of  human  souls.  A  pro- 
found melancholy  took  possession  of  him — partly  that  the  truth 
v.'hich  would  give  rest  was  for  himself  so  hard  to  find,  but  most 
for  the  sight  of  his  eyes  which  he  saw,  when  he  looked  abroad 

^  Lebcns-laiiff,  §  4, 
VOL.  II.  G 


82  Thcosophy  hi  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

upon  God's  rational  creatures.  On  his  return  from  his  travels 
he  settled  in  Gorlitz,  married  early,  and  worked  hard  at  his 
trade.  Eveiywhere  these  anxious  questing  thoughts  about  life's 
mystery  are  with  him,  disquieting.  He  reads  many  mystical 
and  astrological  books,  not  improbably,  even  thus  early, 
Schwenkfeld  and  Paracelsus.*  But  the  cloudy  working  of  his 
mind  is  not  soon  to  give  place  to  sunshine  and  clear  sky.  He 
is  to  be  found  still  with  the  peHcan  and  the  bittern  in  the  deso- 
late places  where  the  salt-pits  glisten,  and  the  nettles  breed,  and 
the  wild  beasts  lie  down,  and  the  cedar  work  is  uncovered, — 
among  the  untimely  ruins  of  that  City  of  Hope  which  had 
almost  won  back  Christendom  in  the  resistless  prime  of 
Luther. 

At  last,  upon  an  ever  memorable  day,  as  he  sat  meditating  in 
his  room,  he  fell,  he  knew  not  how,  into  a  kind  of  trance.  The 
striving,  climbing  sorrows  of  his  soul  had  brought  him  to  this 
luminous  table-land.  A  halcyon  interval  succeeded  to  the 
tempest.  He  did  not  seek,  he  gazed ;  he  was  surrounded  by  an 
atmosphere  of  glory.  He  enjoyed  for  seven  days  an  unruffled 
soul-sabbath.  He  looked  into  the  open  secret  of  creation  and 
providence.     Such  seemed  his  ecstasy.      In  Amadis  of  Greece 

"  See  his  own  account  of  his  mental  als  einen  halb-todten  Geist,    &c.     In 

conflict  and  melancholy,  issuing  in  the  a  letter  to  Caspar  Lindern  he  mentions 

rapturous  intuition  which  solved  all  his  sundry    mystical    writers   concerning 

doubts,    Aurora,     cap.    xix.    §§   1-13.  whom   his   correspondent  appears  to 

He   acknowledges  having  read  many  have  desired  his  opinion,— admits  that 

astrological  books.  ^«/w,7,  cap.  XXV.  §  several   of  them   were    men   of  high 

43  :  ja°  lieber,  Leser,  ich  verstehe  der  spiritual  gifts,     not    to    be   despised, 

Astrologorum  Meinung  nuch  wol,  ich  though   in  many  respects  capable  of 

habe   atich  ein   paar   zeiien  in   ihren  amendment, — says  that  they  were  of 

Schrifften  gelesen,  und  wciss  wol  vie  good  service  in  their  time,  and  would 

sie  den  Lauf  der  Sonnen  und  Sternen  probably  express  themselves  otherwise 

schreiben,  ich  verachte  es  auch  nicht,  did  they  write  now,— shows  where  he 

sondern  halte  es    meisten   Theil    fiir  thinks  Schwenkfeld  wrong  in  affirming 

gut  und  recht.    Compare  also  cap.  x.  §  Christ's  manhood  to  be  no  creature, 

27  :    Ich    habe    viel    holier     Meister  and  speaks   of  Weigel  as    erring    in 

Schrifften  gelesen,    in   Hoffnung  den  like  manner  by  denying  the  Saviour's 

Grund  und  die  rechte  Tieffe  darinnen  true  humanity. —  Tluosoph.    Scndbr.  §§ 

zu  finden,  aber  ich  habe  nichts  funden  52-60. 


6.]  Bchniai's  Illuininat'ion.  83 


an  enchanter  shuts  up  the  heroes  and  princesses  of  the  tale  in 
the  Tower  of  the  Universe,  where  all  that  happened  in  the 
world  was  made  to  pass  before  them,  as  in  a  magic  glass,  while 
they  sat  gazing,  bound  by  the  age-long  spell.  So  Behmen 
believed  that  the  principles  of  the  Universal  Process  were  pre- 
sented to  his  vision  as  he  sat  in  his  study  at  Gorlitz.  We  may 
say  that  it  was  the  work  of  all  his  after  days  to  call  to  mind,  to 
develop  for  himself,  and  to  express  for  others,  the  seminal 
suggestions  of  that  and  one  following  glorious  dream. 

Behmen  was  twenty-five  years  of  age  when  the  subject  of 
this  first  illumination.  He  stated  that  he  was  thrown  into  his 
trance  while  gazing  on  the  dazzling  light  reflected  from  a  tin 
vessel,  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  struck  into  his  room.  Distrusting 
at  first  the  nature  of  the  vision,  he  walked  out  into  the  fields  to 
dissipate  the  phantasmagoria;  but  the  strange  hues  and  symbols 
were  still  present,  and  seemed  to  point  him  to  the  heart  and 
secret  of  the  universe.  For  several  years  his  gift  lay  hidden. 
Behmen  was  known  as  a  quiet,  meditative,  hard-working  man, 
fond  of  books ;  otherwise  scarcely  distinguishable  from  other 
cobblers.  Ten  years  after  the  first  manifestation  he  believed 
himself  the  recipient  of  a  second,  not,  like  the  former,  mediated 
by  anything  external ;  and  revealing,  with  greater  fulness  and 
order,  what  before  lay  in  comparative  confusion.  To  fix  this 
communication  in  a  form  which  might  be  of  abiding  service  to 
him,  he  began  to  write  his  Aurora. 

But  he  shall  tell  his  own  story,  as  he  did  tell  it,  one-and- 
twenty  years  later,  to  his  friend  Caspar  Lindern. 

*  I  saw  and  knew,'  he  says,  '  the  Being  of  all  Beings,  the  Byss 
(Grtmd)  and  the  Abyss:  item,  the  birth  of  the  Holy  Trinity; 
the  origin  and  primal  state  of  this  world  and  of  all  creatures 
through  the  Divine  Wisdom.  I  knew  and  saw  in  myself  all  the 
three  worlds, — i.e.  (i)  the  divine  angelic  or  paradisiacal  world; 
then,  (2)  the  dark  world,  as  the  original  of  nature,  as  to  the 

G  2 


84  TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Rejonnation.     [b.  vm. 

fire  ;  and  (3)  this  external  visible  world,  as  a  creation  and  out- 
birth,  or  as  a  substance  spoken  forth  out  of  the  two  inner 
spiritual  worlds.  Moreover,  I  saw  and  had  cognizance  of  the 
whole  Being  in  good  and  in  evil— how  each  had  its  origin  in  the 
other,  and  how  the  Mother  did  bring  forth;— and  this  all 
moved  me  not  merely  to  the  height  of  wonder,  but  made  me  to 
rejoice  exceedingly.  (Incredible  as  it  may  appear,  this  passage 
has  a  meaning,  which  may  become  apparent  to  some  readers 
after  a  perusal  of  what  is  said  farther  on,  in  explanation  of 
Behmen's  system.) 

'  Soon  it  came  strongly  into  my  mind  that  I  should  set  the 
same  down  in  writing,  for  a  memorial,  albeit  I  could  hardly 
compass  the  understanding  thereof  in  my  external  man,  so  as  to 
write  it  on  paper.  I  felt  that  with  such  great  mysteries  I  must 
set  to  work  as  a  child  that  goes  to  school.  In  my  inward  man 
I  saw  it  well,  as  in  a  great  deep,  for  I  saw  right  through  as  into 
a  chaos  in  which  everything  lay  wrapped,  but  the  unfolding 
thereof  I  found  impossible. 

'  Yet  from  time  to  time  it  opened  itself  within  me,  as  in 
a  growing  plant.  For  the  space  of  twelve  years  I  carried  it 
about  within  me— was,  as  it  were,  pregnant  therewith,  feeling  a 
mighty  inward  impulse,  before  I  could  bring  it  forth  in  any  ex- 
ternal form;  till  afterwards  it  fell  upon  me,  like  a  bursting 
shower  that  hitteth  wheresoever  it  lighteth,  as  it  will.  So  it  was 
with  me,  and  whatsoever  I  could  bring  into  outwardness  that  I 
wrote  down. 

'Thereafter  the  sun  shone  on  me  a  good  while,  yet  not 
steadily  and  without  interval,  and  when  that  light  had  with- 
drawn itself  I  could  scarce  understand  my  own  work.  And 
this  was  to  show  man  that  his  knowledge  is  not  his  own,  but 
God's,  and  that  God  in  man's  soul  knoweth  what  and  how  he 
will. 

'This  writing  of  mine  I  purposed  to  keep  by  me  all  rny  life, 


0.6.]  The  tJircc-lcavcd  Book.  85 

and  not  to  give  it  into  the  hands  of  any  man.  But  it  came  to 
pass  in  the  providence  of  the  Most  High,  that  I  entrusted  a 
person  with  part  of  it,  by  whose  means  it  was  made  known 
without  my  knowledge.  Whereupon  my  first  book,  the  Aurora, 
was  taken  from  me,  and  because  many  wondrous  things  were 
therein  revealed,  not  to  be  comprehended  in  a  moment  by  the 
mind  of  man,  I  had  to  sufier  no  little  at  the  hands  of  the 
worldly-wise — (von  den  Vcrnicnft-wciscn). 

'For  three  years  I  saw  no  more  of  this  said  book,  and 
thought  it  verily  clean  dead  and  gone,  till  some  learned  men 
sent  me  copies  therefrom,  exhorting  me  not  to  bury  my  talent. 
To  this  counsel  my  outward  reason  was  in  no  wise  willing  to 
agree,  having  suffered  so  much  already.  My  reason  was  very 
weak  and  timorous  at  that  time,  the  more  so  as  the  light  of 
grace  had  then  been  withdrawn  from  me  some  while,  and  did 
but  smoulder  within,  like  a  hidden  fire.  So  I  was  filled  with 
trouble.  Without  was  contempt,  within,  a  fiery  driving ;  and 
what  to  do  I  knew  not,  till  the  breath  of  the  Most  High  came 
to  my  help  again,  and  awoke  within  me  a  new  life.  Then  it 
was  that  I  attained  to  a  better  style  of  writing,  likewise  to  a 
deeper  and  more  thorough  knowledge  I  could  reduce  all 
better  to  outward  form — as,  indeed,  my  book  concerning  TJie 
Threefold  Life  through  the  Three  Principles  doth  fully  show,  and 
as  the  godly  reader  whose  heart  is  opened  will  see. 

*  So,  therefore,  have  I  written,  not  from  book-learning,  or  the 
doctrine  and  science  of  men,  but  from  my  own  book  which  was 
cpened  within  me, — the  book  of  the  glorious  image  of  Cod, 
which  it  was  vouchsafed  to  me  to  read  :  'tis  therein  I  have 
studied — as  a  child  in  its  mother's  house,  that  sees  what  its 
father  doth,  and  mimics  the  same  in  its  child's-play.  I  need 
no  other  book  than  this. 

'  My  book  has  but  three  leaves — the  three  principles  of 
Eternity.     Therein  I  find  all  that  Moses  and  the  prophets, 


86 


Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Rcforniatwii.     [„.  vm. 


Christ  and  his  apostles,  have  taught.  Therein  I  find  the  foun- 
dation of  the  Avorld  and  all  mystery —yet,  not  I,  but  the  Spirit 
of  the  Lord  doth  it,  in  such  measure  as  He  pleaseth. 

'For  hundreds  of  times  have  I  prayed  him  that  if  my  know- 
ledge were  not  for  his  glory  and  the  edifying  of  my  brethren, 
he  will  take  it  from  me,  only  keeping  me  in  his  love.  But  I 
have  found  that  with  all  my  earnest  entreaty  the  fire  within  me 
did  but  burn  the  more,  and  it  is  in  this  glow,  and  in  this  know- 

ledge,  that  I  have  produced  my  works 

'  Let  no  man  conceive  of  me  more  highly  than  he  here  seeth, 
for  the  work  is  none  of  mine  ;  I  have  it  only  in  that  measure 
vouchsafed  me  of  the  Lord;  I  am  but  his  instrument  wherewith 
he  doeth  what  he  will.  This,  I  say,  my  dear  friend,  once  for 
all,  that  none  may  seek  in  me  one  other  than  I  am,  as  though 
I  were  a  man  of  high  skill  and  intellect,  whereas  I  live  In 
weakness  and  childhood,  and  the  simplicity  of  Christ.  In  that 
child's  work  which  he  hath  given  me  is  my  pastime  and  my 
play;  'tis  there  I  have  my  deliglit,  as  in  a  pleasure-garden 
where  stand  many  glorious  flowers:  therewith  will  I  make 
myself  glad  awhile,  till  such  time  as  I  regain  the  flowers  of 
Paradise  in  the  new  man.'^ 

This  letter  alludes  to  the  way  in  which  the  Aurora  was  made 
public  without  the  knowledge  of  its  author.  The  friend  to 
whom  he  showed  it  was  Karl  von  Endern,  who,  struck  by  its 
contents,  caused  a  copy  to  be  taken,  from  which  others  were 
rapidly  multiplied.  The  book  fell  into  the  hands  of  Gregory 
Richter,  the  chief  pastor  in  Gorlitz.  Well  may  Behmen^'say 
that  \\\Q  Aurora  contained  some  things  not  readily  apprehended 
by  human  reason.  A  charitable  man  would  have  forgiven  its 
extravagances,  catching  some  glimpses  of  a  sincere  and  religious 
purpose ;  a  wise  man  would  have  said  nothing  about  it  j  a'liian 
the  wisest  of  the  Avise  Avould  have  been  the  last  to  pretend  to 
'"  Tkeosoph,  Seiidbr.  xii.  §§  S-20. 


c.  6  ]  Iutolera)ice  at  Gorlits.  S/ 

understand  it.  But  Richter— neither  charitable  nor  wise  exceed- 
ingly, nor  even  moderately  stocked  with  good  sense — fell  into 
a  blundering  passion,  and  railed  at  Eehmen  from  the  pulpit,  as 
he  sat  in  his  place  at  church,  crimson,  but  patient,  the  centre 
of  all  eyes. 

Behmen  had  already  rendered  himself  obnoxious  to  Richter 
by  a  temperate  but  firm  remonstrance  against  an  act  of  ecclesi- 
astical oppression.  Now,  his  pretensions  seem  openly  to  mili- 
tate against  that  mechanical  religious  monopoly  with  which 
Richter  imagined  himself  endowed, — a  privilege  as  jealously 
watched  and  as  profitably  exercised  by  such  men  as  that  of  the 
muezzins  of  the  mosque  of  Bajazet,  who  are  alone  entitled  to 
supply  the  faithful  with  the  praying  compasses  that  indicate  the 
orthodox  attitude.  The  insolent,  heretical,  blasphemous  cobbler 
shall  find  no  mercy.  Richter  loudly  calls  for  the  penalties  of 
law,  to  punish  a  fanatic  who  has  tauglit  (as  he  declares)  that 
the  Son  of  God  is  Quicksilver !  Gorlitz  magistrates,  either  of 
the  Shallow  family,  or,  it  may  be,  overborne  by  the  blustering 
Rector,  pronounce  Behmen  '  a  villain  full  of  piety,'  and  banish 
him  the  town.  But  by  the  next  day  the  tide  would  appear  to 
have  turned,  and  the  exile  is  brought  back  with  honour.  The 
shoemaker's  booth  is  the  scene  of  a  little  ovation,  while  Richter 
fumes  at  the  parsonage.  Behmen,  however,  must  give  up  the 
manuscript  of  the  Aurora,  and  is  required  for  the  future  to 
stick  to  his  last. 

His  book,  as  it  became  known,  procured  him  many  influential 
friends  among  men  of  learning  and  men  of  rank  throughout 
Lusatia.  He  was  exhorted  not  to  hide  his  talent,  and  the  ensu- 
ing five  years  became  a  period  of  incessant  literary  activity.' 

<>  A  full  account  of  the  persecution  biography.     A  youn?  man,   who  had 

raised    by  Gregory   Richter    against  married  a  relative  of  Bchmen's,    liad 

Behmen,  was  drawn  up  by  Cornelius  been  so  terrified  by  the  threatenings 

Weissner,   a  doctor  of  medicine,  and  of  divine  wrath   launclied  at  him  by 

is  appended  by  Franckenberg  to  his  Richter,    about  some  trilling   money 


88  Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Refor;i:atLoii.      fn. 


The  scholarship  of  friends  Hkc  Kober  andWakher  assisted  him 
to  supply  some  of  the  defects  of  his  education  ;  the  liberality  of 
others  provided  for  his  moderate  wants,  and  enabled  him  to  for- 
sake his  business  for  his  books/  Once  more  did  his  old  enemy, 
the  primarius  Richter,  appear  against  liim,  with  a  pamphlet  of 
virulent  pasquinades  in  Latin  verse.  Lehmen  issued  an  elabo- 
rate reply,  entering  minutely  into  every  charge,  sending  the 
clerical  curses  '  home  to  roost,'  and  ])raying  for  tlie  enHghten- 
nicnt  of  his  persecutor  with  exasperating  good  temper.'  The 
magistrates,  fluttered  and  anxious,  requested  him  to  leave 
Gorlitz.  Knightly  friends  opened  their  castle  gates  to  him  ; 
lie  preferred  retirement  at  Dresden.  There,  a  public  disputa- 
tion he  held  witli  some  eminent  divines  and  men  of  science, 
was  said  to  have  excited  general  admiration.  He  returned  to 
Gorlitz  in  his  last  illness,  to  die  in  the  midst  of  his  family.  He 
expired  (;arly  on  Sunday  morning,  on  the  twenty-first  of 
November,  1624,  in  his  fifdeth  year.  He  asked  his  son  Tobias 
if  he  heard  the  beautiful  music,  and  bade  those  about  him  set 
the  doors  open  that  the  sounds  might  enter.  After  receiving 
tlic  sacrament,  he  breathed  his  last,  at  the  hour  of  which  a 
presentiment  of  dissolution  had  warned  him.  His  last  words 
were,  '  Now  I  am  going  to  Paradise  !" 

Miailcr,   that  he  fell  into  a  profound  "  Thus  he  thanks  Christian  Rernard 

iiuji.iDcholy.     Behmen   comforted  the  for  a  small  remittance   of    money.— 

('.istroiserl   baker,      and    ventured    to  Thcos.  Scndbr.  ix.     Sept.  12,  1620. 

remonstrate   with    the    enraged    pri-  i'  Apologii  zuider  den   Prima rii'm 

marius,  luxoming  ever  after  a  marked  zu  Gorlitz  Gregorium  Richter,  written 

man.     For  seven  years  after  the  affair  in  1624. 

or  the  Aurora,    in  1612,  Behmen  re-  ^  Vide  Corn.  Weissner's  IVa/irk.ifte 

frained    from    writing.        Everything  Relation,    &c.,    and     Franckenberg's 

he  published  subsequently  was    pro-  account  of  his  last  hours,  §  29. 
duced  between   the    years    1619  and 
1624,  inclusive. 


(3.1  Significance  of  Letters.  89 


Note  to  page  80. 

Bclnncn's  learned  friends  were  accustomed  thus  to  test  the  insight  they  so  re- 
vered, and  would  occasionally  attempt  to  mislead  his  sigacity  by  wrong  terms 
and  entrapping  questions  ;  but  always,  we  are  assured,  without  success.  See 
Ebi  Schreibcn  von  eincm  vornehmcii  Patritio  vnd  Katluverivandten  tit 
Gurlitz  wcs^en  seel.  Jac.  Bckvicn  s  Person  und  Schrifjtcn,  appended  to  Franck- 
enberg's  Life  of  Behmen. 

The  rationale  of  this  peculiar  significance  of  letters  and  syllables  he  gives  in 
the  following  passage  : — 

When  man  fell  into  sin,  he  was  removed  from  the  inmost  birth  and  set  in  the 
other  two,  which  presently  encompassed  him,  and  mingled  their  influences  with 
him  and  in  him  {inqualirctcn  viit  ilime  und  in  ihmc),  as  in  their  own  peculiar 
possession  ;  and  man  received  the  spirit  and  the  whole  generation  of  the 
sidereal,  and  also  of  the  external  birth.  Therefore  he  now  speaks  all  words  ac- 
cording to  the  indwelling  generative  principle  of  nature.  For  the  spirit  of  man, 
which  stands  in  the  sidereal  birth,  and  combines  with  all  nature,  and  is  as  all 
nature  itself,  shapes  the  word  according  to  the  indwelling  principle  of  birth. 
Wiicn  he  sees  anything  he  gives  it  a  name  answering  to  its  peculiar  property  or 
virtue  ;  and  if  he  does  this  he  must  fashion  the  word  in  the  form,  and  generate 
it  with  his  voice  in  the  way  in  which  the  thiiig  he  names  generates  ;  and  herein 
lies  the  kernel  of  the  whole  understanding  of  the  Godhead. — Aurora,  cap.  xix. 
§5  74-76.  On  this  principle  he  examines,  syllable  by  syllable,  the  opening  words 
of  Genesis— not  those  of  the  Hebrew,  but  the  German  version  (!),  as  follows  : — 
'  Am  Anfang  schiiff  Gott,'  &c.  These  words  we  must  very  carefully  consider. 
The  word  AM  takes  its  rise  in  the  heart,  and  goes  as  far  as  the  lips.  There  it 
is  arrested,  and  goes  sounding  back  to  whence  it  came.  Now,  this  shows  that 
tiie  sound  went  forth  from  the  heart  of  God,  and  encompassed  the  entire  locus 
of  the  world  ;  but  when  it  was  found  to  be  evil,  then  the  sound  returned  to  its 
place  again.  The  word  AN  pushes  forth  from  the  heart  to  the  mouth,  and  has 
a  long  stress.  But  when  it  is  pronounced,  it  closes  in  its  scdcs  in  the  midst  with 
the  !oof  of  the  mouth,  and  is  half  without  and  half  within.  This  signifies  that 
the  heart  of  God  felt  repugnance  at  the  corruption  of  the  world,  and  cast  the 
corrupt  nature  from  him,  but  again  seized  and  stayed  it  in  the  midst  by  his 
lieart.  Just  as  the  tongue  arrests  the  word,  and  retains  it  half  without  and  half 
within,  so  the  heart  of  God  would  not  utterly  reject  the  enflamed  Salitter,  but 
would  defeat  the  schemes  and  malice  of  the  Devil,  and  finally  restore  the  other. 
—Aurora,  cap.  xviii.  §5  48-52.  A  similar  precious  piece  of  nonsense  is  to  be 
found,  cap.  xviii.  §§  72,  ike.  o{\s\\\c\\  Barmhcrzig\'i  the  thcma.  He  declares, 
in  another  place,  that  when  the  spiritual  Aurora  shall  shine  from  the  rising  of 
the  sun  to  the  going-down  of  the  same,  RA.  RA.  R.P.  shall  be  driven  into 
banishment,  and  with  him  AM.  R.  P.  These  are  secret  words,  he  says,  only 
to  be  imderstood  in  the  language  of  nature. — Aurora,  xxvi.  120. 

I'elimen  was  indebted  to  his  conversations  with  men  like  Kober  and  Walther 
for  much  of  his  terminology,  and  probably  to  the  suggestions  awakened  by  such 
intercourse  for  mucli  of  the  detailed  application  of  his  system.  See  Lebcus-lauff, 
5  20  i  and  compare  the  Clavis,  pr  SchlUssel  etlichcrvornehnicn  Puncicn,  8ic. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

\Vlien  I  niy.^L'lf  from  mine  own  self  do  quit, 

And  each  thing  else  ;  then  all-spreaden  love 
To  the  vast  Universe  my  soul  doth  fit, 

Makes  me  half  eqiiall  to  all-seeing  Jove. 
My  mighty  wmgs  high  stretch'd  then  clapping  light, 
I  brush  the  stars  and  make  them  shine  more  bright. 

Then  all  the  works  of  God  with  close  embrace 

I  dearly  hug  in  my  enlarged  arms, 
All  the  hid  pathes  of  licavenly  love  I  trace, 

And  boldly  listen  to  his  secret  charms. 
Then  clearly  view  I  where  true  light  doth  rise, 
And  where  eternal  Night  low-pressed  lies. 

Henkv  More. 

Willoughby's  Essay — Fifth  Evening. 
§  5-  y^<^<^ob  BchiJicn — his  Materials  atui  Style  of  Workmanship. 

TT  has  been  too  much  the  custom  to  regard  Jacob  Behmen 
as  a  kind  of  speculative  Melchisedek — a  prodigy  without 
doctrinal  father  or  mother.    Let  us  endeavour  to  form  a  correct 
estimate  of  the  debt  he  owes  to  his  mystical  predecessors. 

The  much-pondering  shoemaker  consulted  the  writings  of 
Schwenkfeld  and  Weigel  in  his  distress.  He  found  these 
authors  crying  unceasingly,  '  Barren  are  the  schools ;  barren 
are  all  forms ;  barren — worse  than  barren,  these  exclusive 
creeds,  this  deadly  polemic  letter.'  Weigel  bids  him  withdraw 
into  himself  and  await,  in  total  passivity,  the  incoming  of  the 
divine  Word,  whose  light  reveals  unto  the  babe  what  is  hidden 
from  the  wise  and  prudent.  By  the  same  writer  he  is  reminded 
that  he  lives  in  God,  and  taught  that  if  God  also  dwell  in  him, 
then  is  he  even  here  in  Paradise — the  state  of  regenerate  souls. 
Paracelsus  extols  the  power  of  faith  to  penetrate  the  mysteries 


7-]  BeJiviciis  Predecessors.  9 1 


of  nature,  and  shows  him  how  a  plain  man,  with  his  Bible  only, 
if  he  be  filled  with  the  Spirit  and  carried  out  of  himself  by 
divine  communication,  may  seem  to  men  a  fool,  but  is  in  truth 
more  wise  than  all  the  doctors.  Weigel  says  that  man,  as 
body,  soul,  and  spirit,  belongs  to  three  worlds — the  terrestrial, 
the  astral,  and  the  celestial.  Both  Weigel  and  Paracelsus  teach 
him  the  doctrine  of  the  microcosm.  They  assure  him  that  as 
divine  illumination  reveals  to  him  the  mysteries  of  his  own 
being,  he  will  discern  proportionately  the  secrets  of  external 
nature.  They  teach  that  all  language,  art,  science,  handicraft, 
exists  potentially  in  man ;  that  all  apparent  acquisition  from  with- 
out is  in  reality  a  revival  and  evolution  of  that  which  is  within. 

These  instructors  furnish  the  basis  of  Behmen's  mysticism. 
Having  drunk  of  this  somewhat  heady  vintage,  he  is  less  dis- 
posed than  ever  to  abandon  his  search.  He  will  sound  even 
those  abysmal  questions  so  often  essayed,  and  so  often,  after  all, 
resigned,  as  beyond  the  range  of  human  faculties.  If,  according 
to  the  promise,  importunate  prayer  can  bring  him  light,  then 
shall  light  be  his.  When  he  asks  for  an  answer  from  above  to 
his  speculative  enquiry  into  the  nature  of  the  Trinity,  the  pro- 
cesses of  creation,  the  fall  of  angels,  the  secret  code  of  those 
warring  forces  whose  conflict  produces  the  activity  and  vicissi- 
tudes of  life,  he  does  not  conceive  that  he  implores  any  miracu- 
lous intervention.  Provision  was  made,  he  thought,  for 
knowledge  thus  beyond  what  is  written,  in  the  very  constitution 
of  man's  nature.  Such  wisdom  was  but  the  realization,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  of  our  inborn  possibilities.  It  was  making  actual 
what  had  otherwise  been  only  potential.  It  was  bringing  into 
consciousness  an  implicit  acquaintance  with  God  and  nature 
which  was  involved  in  the  very  idea  of  man  as  the  oftspring  of 
the  Creator  and  the  epitome  of  creation. 

But  of  what  avail  is  light  on  any  minor  province  of  enquiry, 
while  the  fundamental  perplexity  is  unsolved, — Whence  and 


92  yheosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reforjuatiou.     [n.  vm. 

what  is  evil,  and  why  so  masterful  ?  How  could  King  Vorti- 
gern  build  his  great  fortress  upon  Salisbury  Plain,  when  every 
day's  work  was  overthrown  in  the  night  by  an  earthquake — the 
result  of  that  nocturnal  combat  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
between  the  blood-red  and  the  milk-white  dragons  ?  And  how, 
jjray,  was  Behmen  to  come  to  rest  about  his  own  doubts — far 
less  erect  a  system, — till  he  had  reconciled  the  contradiction  at 
the  root  of  all?  The  eternal  opposites  must  harmonize  in  some 
ligher  unity.  Here  Paracelsus  is  Behmen's  Merlin.  The  doc- 
trine of  Development  by  Contraries  was  passed,  in  the  torch- 
race  of  opinion,  from  Sebastian  Frank  to  Paracelsus,  and  from 
him  to  Weigel.  According  to  this  theory,  God  manifests  him- 
self in  opposites.  The  peace  of  Unity  develops  into  the  strife 
of  the  Manifold.  All  things  consist  in  Yea  and  Nay.  The 
light  must  have  shadow,  day  night,  laughter  tears,  health  sick- 
ness, hope  fear,  good  evil,  or  they  would  not  be  what  they  are. 
Only  by  resistance,  only  in  collision,  is  the  spark  of  vitality 
struck  out,  is  power  realized,  and  progress  possible.  Of  this 
hypothesis  I  shall  have  more  to  say  hereafter.  It  is  the  chief 
estate  of  Behmen's  inheritance.  Theosophy  bequeathed  him,  in 
addition,  sundry  lesser  lands  ; — namely,  the  Paracelsian  Triad 
of  Sulphur,  Salt,  and  Mercury  ;  the  doctrine  of  the  vitality  of 
the  world,  with  the  '  Fifth  Element,'  or  '  Breath  of  Life,'  for 
Mundane  Soul;  the  theory  of  sympathies,  stellar  influence,  sig- 
natures ;  and  the  alchemico-astrotheologico  jargon  of  the  day. 

Such,  then,  were  Behmen's  principal  materials.  His  origin- 
ality is  displayed  in  a  most  ingenious  arrangement  and  develop- 
ment of  them  ;  especially  in  their  application  to  theology  and 
the  interpretation  of  Scripture. 

The  description  furnished  us  by  Behmen  himself  of  the 
deciding  epoch  of  his  life,  indicates  the  kind  of  illumination  to 
which  he  laid  claim.  The  light  thus  enjoyed  was  not  shed  upon 
a  mind  from  which  all  the  inscriptions  of  memory  had  been 


c.  7.]  BeJunais  Illuinination.  93 

effaced,  to  produce  that  blank  so  coveted  by  the  mystics  of  a 
former  day.  The  cloud  of  glory  magnified  and  refracted  the 
results  of  those  theosophic  studies  to  which  he  confesses  him- 
self addicted. 

The  topographer  of  Fairyland,  Ludwig  Tieck,  tells  us  that 
when  the  Elf-children  scatter  gold-dust  on  the  ground,  waving 
beds  of  roses  or  of  lilies  instantly  spring  up.  They  plant  tlie 
seed  of  the  pine,  and  in  a  moment  mimic  pine-trees  rise  under 
their  feet,  carrying  upward,  with  the  growth  of  their  swaying 
arms,  the  laughing  little  ones.  So  swiftly,  so  magically— not 
by  labouring  experiment  and  gradual  induction,  but  in  the 
blissful  stillness  of  one  ecstatic  and  consummate  week, — arose 
the  Forms  and  Principles  of  Behmen's  system,  and  with  them 
rose  the  seer.  But  how,  when  the  season  of  vision  is  over,  shall 
he  retain  and  represent  the  complex  intricacies  of  the  Universal 
Organism  in  the  heart  of  which  he  found  himself?  Memory 
can  only  recal  the  mystery  in  fragments.  Reflection  can  with 
difficulty  supplement  and  harmonize  those  parts.  Language 
can  describe  but  superficially  and  in  succession  what  the  inner 
eye  beheld  throughout  and  at  once.  The  fetters  of  time  and 
space  must  fall  once  more  on  the  recovered  consciousness  of 
daily  life.  We  have  heard  Behmen  describe  the  throes  he 
underwent,  the  difficulties  he  overcame,  as  he  persevered  in 
the  attempt  to  give  expression  to  the  suggestions  he  received.^ 
How  long  it  is  before  he  sees 

The  lovely  members  of  the  mighty  whole — 
Till  then  confused  and  shapeless  to  his  soul,— 
Distinct  and  glorious  grow  upon  his  siglit, 
The  fair  enigmas  brighten  from  the  Night. 


^  While  regarding  as  infallibly  cer-  cated  to  him,  he  said,  by  degrees,  at 

tain  the  main  features  of  the  doctrine  uncertain    intervals,    and    never    un- 

comnumicated  to  him,  Behmen  is  quite  mingled  with  obscurity. — Aurorj.  cap. 

ready  to  admit  the  imperfect  character  vii.  §  ii  ;  cap.  x..  §  26,   and  often  else- 

both  of  his  knowledge  and  his  setting  where, 
forth  thereof.     Light   was   communi- 


94  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation.     {?..  vm. 

To  us,  who  do  not  share  Behmen's  delusion,  who  see  in  his 
condition  the  extraordinary,  but  nowise  the  supernatural,  it  is 
clear  that  this  difficulty  was  so  great,  not  from  the  sublime 
character  of  these  cosmical  revelations,  but  because  of  the 
utter  confusion  his  thoughts  were  in.  Glimpses,  and  snatches, 
and  notions  of  possible  reply  to  his  questions,  raying  through 
as  from  holes  in  a  shutter,  reveal  the  clouds  of  dust  in  that 
unswept  brain  of  his,  where  medical  recipes  and  theological 
doctrines,  the  hard  names  of  alchemy  and  the  siiper-subtile 
fancies  of  theosophy,  have  danced  a  whirlwind  saraband.  Yet 
he  believed  himself  not  without  special  divine  aid  in  his 
endeavours  to  develop  into  speech  the  seed  of  thought 
deposited  within  him.  He  apologises  for  bad  spelling,  bad 
grammar,  abbreviations,  omissions,  on  the  ground  of  the 
impetuosity  with  which  the  divine  impulse  hurried  forward  his 
feeble  pen.'^  Unfortunately  for  a  hypothesis  so  flattering,  he 
improves  visibly  by  practice,  like  ordinary  folk. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  Behmen  and  the 
mystics  are  partly  right  and  partly  wrong  in  turning  from 
books  and  schools  to  intuition,  when  they  essay  to  pass  the 
ordinary  bounds  of  knowledge  and  to  attain  a  privileged  gnosis. 
It  is  true  that  no  method  of  human  wisdom  will  reveal  to  men 
the  hidden  things  of  the  divine  kingdom.  But  it  is  also  true 
that  dreamy  gazing  will  not  disclose  them  either.  Scholarship 
may  not  scale  the  heights  of  the  unrevealed,  and  neither 
assuredly  may  ignorance.  There  is  nothing  to  choose  between 
far-seeing  Lynceus  and  a  common  sailor  of  the  Argo,  when  the 
object  for  which  they  look  out  together  is  not  yet  above  the 
horizon.  The  latter,  at  all  events,  should  not  regard  the 
absence  of  superior  endowment  as  an  advantage. 

In  the  more  high-wrought  forms  of  theopathetic  mysticism 

-  Attrora,  x.  §§  44,  45, 


c.  7.]  Protestant  Mysticism.  95 

we  have  seen  reason  regarded  as  the  deadly  enemy  of  rapture. 
The  surpassing  union  which  takes  place  in  ecstasy  is  dissolved 
on  the  first  movement  of  reflection.  Self-consciousness  is  the 
lamp  whereby  the  ill-fated  Psyche  at  once  discerns  and  loses 
the  celestial  lover,  whose  visits  cease  with  secrecy  and  night. 
But  Behmen  devoutly  employs  all  the  powers  of  a  most  active 
mind  to  combine,  to  order,  to  analyse,  to  develop,  the  heavenly 
data. 

Protestant  mysticism  generally  is,  like  Behmen's,  commu- 
nicative. The  mysticism  of  the  Reformation  and  of  the 
Counter-Reformation  afford,  in  this  respect,  a  striking  contrast. 
That  of  the  Romanists  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  veiled  thing,  not 
to  be  profaned  by  speech.  It  is  an  ineffable  privilege  which 
description  would  deprive  of  its  awe.  It  is  commonly  a  con- 
trivance employed  for  effect — a  flash,  and  darkness.  It  is  a 
distinction,  in  some  cases,  for  services  past;  an  individual 
preparation,  in  others,  for  services  to  come.  The  special 
revelation  of  the  Protestant  is  a  message  to  some  man  for  his 
fellow-men.  It  at  least  contemplates  something  practical.  It 
is  generally  reformatory.  The  vision  of  the  Romish  saint  is  a 
private  token  of  favour,  or  a  scar  of  honour,  or  a  decoration 
from  the  court  of  heaven,  like  a  cross  or  star. 

The  illumination  of  Behmen  differs,  again,  from  that  oi 
Swedenborg,  in  that  he  does  not  profess  to  have  held  com- 
munication with  spirits,  or  to  have  passed  into  other  worlds 
and  states  of  being.  While  his  doctrine  is,  in  many  respects, 
less  subjective  than  that  of  .Swedenborg,  his  mode  of  vision,  so 
entirely  internal,  is  more  so. 

The  three-leaved  book,  says  Behmen,  is  within  me  ;  hence 
all  my  teaching.  In  man  are  the  three  gates  opening  on  the 
three  worlds.  Behmen's  heaven  is  not  wholly  above  the  sky. 
The  subterranean  regions  cannot  contain  his  hell.     The  inner 


96  Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [n.  vm. 

and  spiritual  sphere  underlies  everywhere  the  material  and 
outward.^  As  with  those  hollow  balls  of  carved  ivory  that 
come  to  us  from  the  East,  one  is  to  be  discerned  within  the 
other  through  the  open  tracery.  The  world  is  like  some  kinds 
of  fruit — a  plum  or  apple,  for  instance, — and  has  its  rind-men, 
its  pulp-men,  and  its  core,  or  kernel-men;  yet  all  with  the 
same  faculties, — only  the  first  live  merely  on  the  surface  of 
things  ;  the  last  perceive  how  the  outer  form  is  determined  by 
the  central  life  within.  Man  intersects  the  spiritual,  sidereal, 
and  terrestrial  worlds,  as  a  line  from  the  centre  to  the  outer- 
most of  three  concentric  circles.  Behmen  would  say  that  his 
insight  arose  from  his  being  aided  by  Divine  Grace  to  live 
along  the  whole  line  of  his  nature,  with  a  completeness  attained 
by  few.  He  travels  to  and  fro  on  his  radius.  When  recipient 
of  celestial  truth  he  is  near  the  centre  ;  when  he  strives  to  give 
utterance  and  form  to  such  intimations,  he  approaches  the 
circumference.  "When  asked  how  he  came  to  know  so  much 
about  our  cosmogony,  and  about  the  origin  and  oeconomy  of 
the  angelic  world,  he  would  answer,  '  Because  I  have  lived  in 
that  region  of  myself  which  opens  out  upon  those  regions.  I 
need  not  change  my  place  to  have  entrance  into  the  heavenly 
sphere.     1  took  no  Mahomet's  flight.     The  highest  and  the 

■'  See  .^www,  cap.  xix.  §§  26-45;  which  thus  broods  above  the  light,  and 

cnp.^  xxiii.  §  86.  tliine  eyes  are  opened,  then  tlTou'seest 

After    speaking    of    the    revolt    of  even  on  the  spot  where  thou  sittest, 

Lucifer  as  the  cause  of  the  present  im-  standest,  or  dost  lie  in   thy  room,  the 

perfection   and   admixture  of  natural  lovely  face  of  God,  and  all  the  gates 

fvil  in   the  world,    by  corrupting  the  that  open  upon  heaven.  Thou  needest 

iiitluence     of     the      Fountain-Spirits  not    first  lift  thine    eyes   upwards  to 

throughout    our    department    of    the  heaven,  for  it  is  written,  •  The  word  is 

imiverse,    and   of  the  blind   and   en-  near  thee,  even  on  thy  lips  and  in  thine 

dangered  condition  of  man  consequent  heart;'  Dent.  xxx.  14  ;   Rom.  x.  8.  So 

thereon,    he   adds,  — 'But   thou  must  near   thee,   indeed,    is   God,  that' the 

not  suppose  that  on  this  account  the  birth  of  the  Holy  Trinity  takes  place 

lieavenly  light  in  the  Fountain-Spirits  in  thine  heart  also,  and  there  al'  three 

of  God  is  utterly  extinct.     No  ;  it   is  persons  are  born,— Father.  Son   tincl 

but  a   darkness  which    we,  with   our  \io\^  QAxosi.'— Aurora,  cap.  x.  §§57, 

corrupt  eyesight,    cannot  apprehend.  58. 
Rut  when  God  removes  the  darkness 


c.  7.] 


The  three  Rivers. 


97 


inmost,  in  the  deepest  sense.,  are  one.'*  So  it  is  as  though  man 
stood  at  a  spot  where  three  rivers  are  about  to  join ;  as 
though  to  drink  of  the  water  of  each  was  to  give  him  know- 
ledge of  the  kind  of  country  through  which  each  had  passed  ; 
how  one  ran  embrowned  out  of  marshy  lakes — through  wealthy 
plains — under  the  bridges  of  cities, — washing  away  the  refuse 
of  manufactures  ;  while  the  second  came  ruddy  from  rocks,  red 
with  their  iron  rust, — came  carrying  white  blossoms  and  silver- 
grey  willow  leaves  from  glens  far  up  tlie  country,  deepfolded  in 
hanging  woods  ;  and  the  water  of  the  third,  ice-cold  and 
hyaline,  presented  to  the  soul,  as  it  touched  the  lips,  visions  of 
the  glacier-portcullis  from  under  whose  icicles  it  leaped  at  first, 
and  of  those  unsullied  tracts  of  heavenward  snow  which  fed  its 
childhood  at  the  bidding  of  the  sun,  and  watched  it  from  the 
heights  of  eternal  silence. 

The   Aurora   was    the   firstfruit   of    the   illumination    thus 


*  '  The  spirit  of  man,'  says  Behmen, 
'contains  a  spark  from  the  power  and 
light  of  God.'  The  Holy  Ghost  is 
'  creaturely'  within  it  wlien  renewed, 
and  it  can  therefore  search  into  the 
depths  of  God  and  nature,  as  a  child 
in  its  father's  house.  In  God,  past, 
present,  and  future  ;  breadth,  depth, 
and  height  ;  far  and  near,  are  appre- 
hended OS  one,  and  the  holy  soul  of 
man  sees  them  in  like  manner,  al- 
though (in  the  present  imperfect  state) 
but  partially.  For  the  devil  sometimes 
succeeds  in  smothering  the  seed  of  in- 
ward light.' — Aurora,  I'orrcdc,  §596- 
105. 

According  to  Behmen,  Stephen, 
when  he  saw  the  heavens  opened,  and 
Christ  at  the  right  hand  of  God,  was 
not  spiritually  translated  into  any  dis- 
tant upper  region, — '  he  had  pene- 
trated mto  the  inmost  birth — into  the 
heaven  which  is  everywhere.' — Auronj. 
cap.  xix.  548.  Similarly,  he  declaies 
that  he  had  not  ascended  into  heaven, 

VOL.  il. 


and  seen  with  the  eye  of  the  flesh  the 
creative  processes  he  describes,  bur 
that  his  knowledge  comes  from  the 
opening  within  him  of  the  gate  to  the 
inner  heavenly  world,  so  that  the 
divine  sun  arose  and  shone  within  his 
heart,  givin;:  him  infallible  inward  cer- 
tainty concerning  everything  he  an- 
nounces. If  an  angel  from  heaven 
had  told  him  such  things,  he  must 
have  doubted.  It  might  liave  been 
Satan  ia  a  garb  of  light :  it  would 
have  been  an  external  testimony  :  it 
would  have  been  beyond  his  compre- 
hension ;  but  this  light  and  impulse 
from  within  precludes  all  doubt.  The 
holy  Soul  is  one  spirit  with  God, 
though  still  a  creature  ;  sees  as  the 
angels  see,  and  far  more,  since  they 
discern  only  heavenly  things,  but  man 
has  experience  both  of  heaven  and 
hell,  standing  as  he  does  midway  be- 
tween the  two. — Aurora,  cap.  xi.  §§ 
63-72  and  cap.  xii.  §  117.  Conip. 
also   Tr.  XXV.  §§  46-48. 

H 


98  TJicosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [n.  vm. 

realized.  He  composed  it,  he  reminds  us,  for  himself  alone, 
to  give  him  a  hold  against  any  refluent  doubt  that  might 
threaten  to  sweep  him  back  into  the  waves.  It  is  the  worst 
written  of  all  his  treatises.  With  respect  to  it,  the  answer 
of  Shakspeare's  Roman  shoemaker  gives  to  Marullus  may  be 
adopted  by  our  Teuton — '  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine 
workman,  I  am  but,  as  you  would  say,  a  cobbler.'  Yet  this 
botched  performance  best  renders  us  the  genuine  Behmen,  as 
he  was  when  first  the  afilatus  came,  before  greater  leisure  for 
reading  and  study,  and  intercourse  with  men  of  station  or 
scholarship  had  given  him  culture.  This  Aurora^  then,  over 
which  Karl  von  Endern  pored  in  his  simplicity  till  he  rose 
therefrom  with  a  bewildered  admiration  and  a  sense  of  baffled 
amazement,  physically  expressed  by  a  feverish  headache, — over 
whose  pages  Gregory  Richter  galloped  with  scornful  hoof, 
striking  out  pishes  and  pshaws  and  bahs  over  its  flinty  rugged- 
ness, — this  Aurora — a  dawn  opening  for  Behmen  with  such 
threatening  weather  within  and  without — what  kind  of  book 
does  it  appear  to  us  ? 

It  is  at  first  with  curiosity,  then  with  impatience,  and  ere 
long  with  the  irritation  of  inevitable  fatigue,  that  we  read  those 
Avordy  pages  Behmen  wrote  with  such  a  furious  im.petus.  How 
wide  the  distance  between  him  and  his  readers  now  !  Behold 
him  early  in  his  study,  with  bolted  door.  The  boy  must  see 
to  the  shop  to-day  ;  no  sublunary  cares  of  awl  and  leather, 
customers  and  groschen,  must  check  the  rushing  flood  of 
thought.  The  sunshine  streams  in — emblem,  to  his  'high- 
raised  phantasy,'  of  a  more  glorious  light.  As  he  writes,  the 
thin  cheeks  are  flushed,  the  grey  eye  kindles,  the  whole  frame 
is  damp  and  trembling  with  excitement.  Sheet  after  sheet  is 
covered.  The  headlong  pen,  too  precipitate  for  caligraphy,  for 
punctuation,  for  spelHng,  for  syntax,  dashes  on.  The  lines 
which  darken  down  the  waiting  page  are,  to  the  writer,  furrows 


7-]  Wordiness  ami  Repetition. 


C9 


into  which  heaven  is  raining  a  driven  shower  of  celestial  seed. 
On  the  chapters  thus  fiercely  written  the  eye  of  the  modern 
student  rests,  cool  and  critical,  wearily  scanning  paragraphs 
digressive  as  Juliet's  nurse,  and  protesting  with  contracted 
eyebrow,   that  this  easy  writing  is  abominably  hard  to  read. 

We   survey   this   monument  of    an   extinct  enthusiasm, this 

structure,  many-chambered,  intricate,  covering  so  broad  a 
space,— as  does  the  traveller  the  remains  of  the  Pompeian 
baths ;— there  are  the  cells  and  channels  of  the  hypocaust, 
dusty  and  open  to  the  day,  the  fires  long  since  gone  out,  and 
all  tliat  made  the  busy  echoing  halls  and  winding  passages  so 
full  of  life— the  laughter,  the  quarrel,  the  chatter  of  the 
\-estibule,  imagination  must  supply,  while  Signor  Inglese, 
beneath  a  large  umbrella  and  a  stra\/  hat,  doth  gaze  and 
muse,  with  smarting  eyes  and  liquefying  body. 

Behmen  does  not  suffer  much  more  in  this  respect  than  all 
minds  of  his  class  must  suffer.  Imagination,  with  its  delicate 
sympathy,  will  know  how  to  make  allowance  for  him  ;  but 
reason  will  not  attempt  to  rescue  him  from  condign  sentence  of 
unreadableness.  It  is  obvious,  after  all,  that  the  good  man's 
inspiration  was  not  born  of  the  mania  Plato  describes  as 
'divine  transport;'  that  it  was  akin  rather  to  that  morbid 
activity  which  is  but  '  human  distemper.'  It  is  the  prerogative 
of  genius  to  transmit  through  the  dead  page,  with  a  glow  that 
can  never  become  quite  cold,  some  rays  of  that  central  heat  of 
heart  which  burned  when  the  writer  held  the  pen.  The  power 
of  Behmen  does  not  reach  so  far.  That  rapidity  which  was  tc 
him  the  witness  of  the  Spirit,  leaves  for  us  only  the  common 
signs  of  unpardonable  haste,— is  tediously  visible  in  negligence 
disorder,  repetitions,  and  diffuseness. 

As  might  be  expected,  Behmen  is  often  best  in  those  parts 
of  his  writings  to  which  he  himself  would  have  assigned  Ies.s 
value.     In   many  of  liis  letters,    in  some  of  his   prefLices,  and 


H    2 


100         Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformatio}!,      [b.  vm. 


interspersed  throughout  all  his  works,  exhortations  are  to  be 
found  which  in  their  pungency  and  searching  force  recal  the 
burning  admonitions  of  Richard  Baxter.  These  appeals, 
summoning  to  religious  simplicity  and  thoroughness,  exposing 
the  treacheries  of  the  heart,  encouraging  the  feeble-minded, 
awakening  the  sleeper,  would  be  as  eloquent  and  pathetic 
as  they  are  earnest  and  true,  did  he  oftener  know  where  to 
stop.  Such  passages,  however,  are  preludes  or  interludes 
neighboured  by  heavy  monologue,  monotonous  and  protracted 
beyond  all  patience  We  descend  from  those  serene  uplands, 
where  the  air  is  redolent  of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  and  the 
voices  we  hear  recal  the  sounds  of  Hebrew  prophecy  or  psalm, 
to  the  poor  flats  of  his  mortal  speculation — muddy,  we  must 
say  it,  in  the  finest  weather,  where  chalky  streams  wind  their 
slow  length  by  stunted  pollards,  over  levels  of  interminable 
verbiage. 

The  same  ideas  incessantly  recur,  sometimes  almost  in  the 
same  words.  Such  repetition  contributes  not  a  little  to  the 
discouragement  and  perplexity  of  the  reader,  even  when  most 
pertinaciously  bent  on  exploring  these  recesses, — as  in  thread- 
ing his  dim  way  through  the  catacombs,  the  investigator  loses 
count  by  the  resemblance  of  so  many  passages  to  each  other, 
and  seems  to  be  returning  constantly  to  the  same  spot.  With 
all  his  imagination,  Behmen  has  little  power  of  elucidation, 
scarcely  any  original  illustration.  The  analogies  suggested  to 
him  are  seldom  apt  to  his  purpose,  or  such  as  really  throw  light 
on  his  abstractions.  To  a  mind  active  in  sucli  direction  illus- 
trative allusions  are  like  the  breed  of  ponies  celebrated  in  the 
Pirate^  that  graze  wild  on  the  Shetland  hills,  from  among 
which  the  islander  catches,  as  he  needs,  the  first  that  comes  to 
hand,  puts  on  the  halter,  canters  it  his  journey,  and  lets  it  go, 
never  to  know  it  more.  But  Behmen,  when  he  has  laid  hold  of  a 
firailitude,  locks  the  stable  door  upon  it — keeps  it  for  constant 


c.  7.]  Obscurity  of  Beluncns  Writings.  101 


service — and  at  some  times  rides  the  poor  beast  to  deatli.  The 
obscurity  of  his  writings  is  increased  by  his  arbitrary  chemico- 
theological  terminology,  and  the  hopeless  confusion  in  which 
his  philosophies  of  mind  and  matter  lie  entangled.  His  pages 
resemble  a  room  heaped  in  disorder,  with  the  contents  of  a 
library  and  laboratory  together.  In  this  apartment  you  open  a 
folio  divine,  and  knock  over  a  bottle  of  nitric  acid  ; — you  go  to 
look  after  the  furnace,  and  you  tumble  over  a  pile  of  books. 
You  cannot  divest  yourself  of  the  suspicion  that  when  you  have 
left  the  place  and  locked  the  door  behind  you,  these  strange 
implements  will  assume  an  unnatural  life,  and  fantastically 
change  places, — that  the  books  will  some  of  them  squeeze 
themselves  into  the  crucible,  and  theology  will  simmer  on  the 
fire,  and  that  the  portly  alembic  will  distil  a  sermon  on  pre- 
destination. 

The  Aurora  is  broken  every  here  and  there  by  headings  in 
capital  letters — promising  and  conspicuous  sign-posts,  on  which 
are  written,  '  Mark  !' — '  Now  mark  !' — '  Understand  this 
ARIGHT  !' — '  The   gate   of   the   great  mystery  !' — '  Mark 

NOW      THE      hidden       MYSTERY      OF      GOD  I' '  ThE      DEEPEST 

DEPTH  !' — and  similar  delusive  advertisements,  pointing  the 
wayfarer,  alas  !  to  no  satisfactory  path  of  extrication, — places 
rather  of  deeper  peril, — spots  like  those  in  the  lowlands  of 
Northern  Germany,  verdurous  and  seemingly  solid,  but  conceal- 
ing beneath  their  trembling  crust  depths  of  unfathomable  mire, 
whence  (like  fly  from  treacle-jar)  the  unwary  traveller  is  happy 
to  emerge,  miserably  blinded  and  besmeared,  with  a  hundred- 
weight of  mud  weighing  down  either  Hmb.  Often  does  it  seem 
as  though  now,  surely,  a  goodly  period  were  at  hand,  and 
Cehmen  were  about  to  say  something  summary  and  trans- 
parent :  the  forest  opens — a  little  cleared  land  is  discernible 
— a  solitary  homestead  or  a  c'iarcoal-burner's  hut  appears  to 
indicate  the  verge  of  this  interminable  Ardennes  forest  of  words 


102  Tluosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Rcfonnatlon.      [n.  vni. 

—but  only  a  little  further  on,  the  trees  shut  out  the  sky  again  ; 
it  was  but  an  interstice,  not  the  limit ;  and  the  wild  underwood 
and  press  of  trunks  embarrass  and  obscure  our  course  as 
before.  It  is  some  poor  relief  when  Behmen  pauses  and 
fetches  breath  to  revile  the  Devil,  and  in  homely  earnest  calls 
him  a  damned  stinking  goat,  or  asks  him  how  he  relishes  his 
prospects;  when  he  stops  to  anticipate  objections  and  objurgate 
the  objectors,  dogmatizing  anew  with  the  utmost  7idivcfl\  and 
telling  them  to  take  care,  for  they  will  find  him  right  to  a 
certainty  at  the  last  day  ;  or,  finally,  when  he  refreshes  himself 
by  a  fling  at  the  Papists,  quite  Lutheran  in  its  heartiness.  For 
in  Behmen's  mysticism  there  was  nothing  craven,  effeminate,  or 
sentimental.  He  would  contend  to  the  death  for  the  open 
Bible.  All  spiritual  servitude  was  his  abhorrence.  Very 
different  was  the  sickly  mysticism  for  a  short  time  in  vogue  in 
Germany  at  a  later  period  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Behmen 
was  no  friend  to  what  was  narrow  or  corrupt  in  the  Lutheranism 
of  his  day.  But  a  Lutheran  he  remained,  and  a  genuine 
Protestant.  Sickly  and  servile  natures  could  only  sigh  over 
the  grand  religious  battle  of  those  days,  and  would  have  made 
away  their  birthright— liberty,  for  that  mess  of  pottage— peace. 
They  began  by  regarding  the  strife  between  tyranny  and 
freedom  with  unmanly  indifference.  They  ended  by  exercisin<T 
for  the  last  time  their  feeble  private  judgment,  and  securing 
themselves  with  obsequious  haste  in  the  shackles  of  the 
infallible  Church. 


CHAPTER  VIlI. 

Mi/trra?  Sc  i'oo«  ~v  to  Aajxird/xf I'ov. 

Ta  Ti  Kal  Ttt  Ac'yei,  SO  to (Jjaci'aMei'OV,  , 

BuSoi/  6.'p!,riTOV  ^i    -b  KprirTOft-tvov  . 

A|U(|>ixoptiia>i'.  !o(.ais  a   70.1?.  '   . 

Su  TO  tlVtoi/ €(^U5,  Ef  Kac  ?rai/Ta 

2u  TO  T'KTo/xei'oi',  E.V  xa9'  tavTO. 

211  TO  (J)u)Tc'foi',  Ko    6ta  rrai'Toji'.l 

Synesilts. 
WiLLOUGHBV's  EsSAY — SiXTH  EVENING. 

§  6.  yacoi?  Behinen. — Sketch  and  Esimafe  of  his  System. 

00  our  Behmen,  rejoicing  in  his  supernatural  light,  is 
^  prepared  to  answer  more  questions  than  ever  the  Northern 
hero,  Ganglar,  put  to  the  throned  phantoms  in  the  palace 
roofed  with  golden  shields.  Let  us  listen  to  some  ol"  his 
replies.  We  have  been  long  in  the  penumbra — now  for  the 
depth  of  the  shadow. 

To  begin  with,  Behmen  must  have  an  '  Immanent,'  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  revealed  Trinity.  He  attempts  to  exhibit 
the  principle  of  that  threefold  mode  of  the  divine  existence, 
concerning  which  we  could  have  known  nothing,  apart  from 
Revelation,  and  which  R  evelation  discloses  only  in  its  practical 
connexion  with  the  salvation  of  man.  His  theory  of  the  Trinity 
is  not  one  whit  more  unsubstantial  than  many  suggested  by 
modern  philosophical  divines  of  high  repute.  In  the  Abyss  of 
the  divine  nature,  the  Nothing  of  unrevecded  Godhead,  Behmen 

1  The  initiate  mind  saith  this  and  thou  art  the  manifest,    thou   art   the 

saith    that,    as   it  circles  around   the  hidden  one, — hid  by  thy  glories.    One, 

unspeakable    Depth.      Thou  art    the  and  yet  all  things,  one  in  thyseh  alone, 

bringer-forth.  thou  too  the  offspring  ;  yet  throughout  all  things  1 
thou  the  illuminer,  thou  the  illuminate  ; 


1 04         Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [d.  vni. 

supposes  that  there  exists  Desire — a  going  forth,  on  the  part  of 
what  is  called  the  Father.  The  object  and  realization  of  such 
tendency  is  the  Son.  The  bond  and  result  of  this  reciprocal 
love  is  the  Holy  Spirit.^ 

Here  a  marked  difference  must  be  noted  between  Behmen 
and  recent  German  speculation.  With  Hegel,  for  example, 
humanity  is  an  indispensable  link  in  the  Trinitarian  process. 
God  depends  on  man  for  his  self-consciousness  and  develop- 
ment. The  deity  of  Behmen,  on  the  contrary,  is  self-sufficing, 
and  the  circle  of  the  divine  blessedness  does  not  stand 
indebted  to  man  for  its  completion. 

But  does  not  every  inward  suppose  an  outward  ?  As,  there- 
fore, there  is  an  Eternal  Spirit,  so  also  is  there  an  Eternal 
Nature.  God  is  not  mere  being  ;  He  is  Will.  This  Will 
manifests  itself  in  an  external  universe. 

The  Eternal  Nature,  or  Mysteriiim  Magmim,  may  be 
described  as  the  external  correlative  of  the  divine  Wisdom.  In 
other  words,  what  are  Ideas  in  the  divine  Wisdom,  assume  ex- 
ternal form,  as  natural  properties,  in  the  Eternal  Nature.  Suso 
and  Spenser  sing  the  praises  of  the  heavenly  Wisdom.  Behmen, 
too,  personifies  this  attribute  as  the  eternal  Virgin.  But  Nature 
is  distinguished  from  the  maiden  Wisdom  as  the  prolific 
Mother  of  the  Universe. 

In  the  Eternal  Nature,  are  seven  'Forms  of  Life,'  or  'Active 
Principles,'  or  'Fountain-Spirits'  {Qne/lgcisfcr),  or  'Mothers 
of  Existence,' — typified  in  the  seven  golden  candlesticks  of  the 

'^   Vo?f-    den.    drei    Principien    des  the   Power   {Kmfft)   whereby  it  pos- 

Gotflichen  lVese?ts,  cap.  vii.  §§  22,  &c.,  sesses  a  body  proper  to  itself ;  secondly, 

cap.  ix.  30,  ct  passim.     Aurora,  cap.  the  sap  [Sajft)   or  heart  ;  thirdly,  the 

ii.  §  41  ;    cap.  .\.\iii.    61-82.     Compare  peculiar  virtue,    smell,    or  taste   pro- 

Aurora,    cap.    xx.    §§    49,   &c.     Drci  ceeding    from    it  ;  this   is   its     spirit 

Priyicip.cap.vn.  2^.     Aurora,  cap.  x;  (§47).     So,   in   the  soul   of  man,    do 

§  58.  Also  cap.  iii.  throughout.    There  Power,    and   Light,    and   a    Spirit   of 

he  describes  the  way  in  which  every  Understanding— the  offspring  of  both 

natural  object — wood,  stone,  or  plant,  — correspond  to  the  three  persons  of 

contains  three  principles, — the  image,  the  Trinity  (§  42,) 
ir  impress  of  the  divine  Trinity  ;  first, 


c.  8.]  The  Poiiniaiji-Spirits.  iC5 

Apocalypse,  and  in  the  many  examples  of  that  significant 
number.  These  Forms  reciprocally  generate  and  are  generated 
by  each  other.  Each  one  of  them  is  at  once  the  parent  and 
ofifspring  of  all  the  rest.  As  King  Arthur  for  his  knights,  so 
Behmen  has  a  kind  of  round  table  for  them,  that  no  one  may 
hold  precedence.  He  compares  them  to  a  skeleton  globe,  or  a 
system  of  wheels  revolving  about  a  common  centre.  This 
heart  or  centre  is  the  Son  of  God,  as  the  sun  is  the  heart  and 
lord  of  the  seven  planets.  The  antitheses  which  these  various 
qualities  present  to  each  other,  in  their  action  and  reaction,  are 
harmonized  in  the  Supreme  Unity.  The  opposition  and  recon- 
ciliation of  ideal  principles  manifest  the  divine  fulness, — consti- 
tute a  play  of  love  and  life  in  the  Divine  Nature,  the  blessed- 
ness of  Godhead.  But  the  simultaneous  action  of  these 
qualities  becomes  concrete  in  the  visible  universe.  On  our 
planet  their  operation  has  been  corrupted  by  moral  evil,  and  is 
therefore  accompanied  by  painful  strife ;  so  that,  with  harsh 
clangour,  the  great  wheel  of  life  is  turned  by  hostile  forces. 

The   shortest   method   will    be   at   once   to   catalogue   the 
mighty  Seven — the  besiegers  of  that  Thebes,  your  patience. 

I.  T/ie  Astringent  Quality. 
This  first  Fountain-Spirit  is  the  principal  of  all  contractive 
force.  It  is  desire,  and  draws,  producing  hardness,  solidity,  &c. 
Rocks  are  hard  because  this  quality  is  dominant,  or  primus  in 
them,  as  Behmen  phrases  it.  In  organic  nature  it  produces  the 
woody  fibre.  It  predominates  im  the  planet  Saturn,  in  salt,  in 
bone,  in  wolves, 

II.   T/ic  Sweet  Quality. 
The  second  is  the  antagonist  of  the  first, — the  principle  of 
expansion  and  movement.     The  pliant  forms  of  plants,  fluids, 
quicksilver, — and,  among  animals,  the  subtle  fox,  are  examples 
of  its  characteristic  supremacy. 


lo6         Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Refonnation.     [b.  vnt. 

III.  The  Bitter  Quality.  __ 
This  is  the  principle  generated  from  the  conflict  of  those  two 

contraries,  the  first  and  second.  It  is  manifest  in  the  anguish 
and  strife  of  being, — in  the  alterations  of  the  revolving  wheel 
of  life.  It  may  become  heavenly  rapture  or  hellish  torment. 
Its  influence  is  dominant  in  sulphur,  in  the  planet  Mars,  in 
war,  in  dogs.  It  produces  red  colours,  and  reigns  in  choleric 
temperaments. 

IV.  The  QiiaUty  of  Fire. 

The  first  three  qualities  belong  more  especially  to  the  kingdom 
of  the  Father — of  wrath,  necessity,  death.  The  last  three  to  the 
kingdom  of  the  Son — of  love,  freedom,  life.  The  fourth  quality 
is  the  intermediate  or  transition  point  between  the  two 
members  of  this  antithesis  of  evolution.  In  the  quality  of  Fire, 
light  and  darkness  meet ;  it  is  the  root  of  the  soul  of  man  ; 
the  source,  on  either  side,  of  heaven  and  hell,  between  which 
our  nature  stands.  In  this  lower  material  world,  it  is  manifest 
in  the  principle  of  growtli.  In  the  sidereal  world,  its  planet  is 
the  central  sun.  It  produces  yellow  colours  ;  reigns,  among 
metals,  in  gold, — among  animals,  in  the  lion. 

V.  The  Quality  of  Love. 

This  principle,  in  its  higher  operations,  is  the  source  of 
wisdom  and  glory.  It  predominates  in  all  sweet  things,  in 
birds,  in  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes ;  and  its  star  is  Venus. 
Behmen,  in  some  places,  assigns  this  quality  especially  to  the 
gracious  Son. 

VI.   The  Quality  of  Sound. 
Hence,  in  heaven,  the  songs  of  the  angels,  the  harmony  of 
the  spheres ;   in  man,  the  five  senses,  understanding,  and  the 
gift  of  speech.     This  quality  {?, priuius  in  jovial  temperaments, 
and  produces  blue  colours. 


c.  S-i  The  Fountain- spirits.  TO; 


A"II.  The  Quality  of  Corporeity,  or  Essentia/  Si/bsta/iec. 
This  is  tlie  quality  by  which  all  the  rest  come  to  manifesta- 
tion. It  falls,  with  the  preceding,  more  peculiarly  under  the 
province  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  as  the  searching  and  formative 
principle.  It  is  the  source  in  the  heavenly  world  of  the  beauti- 
ful forms  of  Paradise,  as  the  preceding  is  of  its  sweet  sounds. 
On  earth  it  is  the  plastic  power  ruling  matter — the  operative 
spirit  of  nature.^ 

It  is  curious  to  observe  how  Behmen's  theory  takes  hold  of 
Chemistry  with  one  hand,  and  I'heology  with  the  other. 
Paracelsus  pronounced  all  matter  composed  of  salt,  mercury, 
and  sulphur.  Behmen  adds,  '  It  is  even  so,  considering  salt  as 
the  representative  of  the  astringent  or  attractive  principle, — 
mercury,  of  the  fluent  or  separative, — and  sulphur,  of  nature's 
pain  in  the  resultant  process  of  production.'  Again,  the  Father 
is  the  dark  or  tiery  principle  ;  the  Son,  the  principle  of  light  or 
grace ;  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  creative,  formative,  preserving 
principle — the  outbirth  or  realization  of  the  two  former.  There 
are  no  materials  so  incongruous  that  a  dexterous  use  ol 
imaginative  or  superficial  analogies  cannot  combine  them.  In 
this  way,  a  medley  of  terms  from  the  nomenclature  of  every 
science  may  be  catalogued  and  bracketed  in  symmetrical 
groups  of  twos  and  threes.  Behmen  was  too  much  in  earnest, 
however,  to  carry  such  artificial  method  very  far.  He  was  more 
concerned  about  thought  than  orderly  form.  He  could  not 
postulate  a  fact  to  fill  a  gap  in  a  synopsis.  Though  he  mingles  in 
much  confusion  the  sciences  of  mind  and  matter,  he  does  not 
confound  their  subjects,  and  regard  them  as  different  states  of 
one  substance.  He  would  not  affirm,  with  Schelling,  that  matter 
was  mind  dormant;  and  mind,  matter  realized  and  self-conscious, 

^  See  Note  on  p.  120. 


I08         Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

We  have  seen  that  Behmen  assigns  the  first  three  principles 
to  the  dark  kingdom  of  the  Father.  When  he  describes  that 
as  a  reahn  of  wrath  and  darkness,  he  speaks  chiefly  from  the 
human  point  of  view.  God  is  love.  The  Father  regarded  as 
the  wrath-principle,  cannot  strictly  be  called  God.  But  the 
very  principle  which  makes  love  what  it  is,  becomes,  in  respect 
to  sin,  so  much  wrath. 

Yet,  independently  of  man,  and  of  such  wrath  as  he  may 
know,  God  would  still  have  manifested  himself  in  contraries. 
The  divine  One,  the  unmanifested  Subject,  seeking  an  object- 
desiring,  as  it  were,  to  find  himself,  becomes  what,  for  lack  of 
better  terms,  Behmen  has  to  call  a  craving  darkness,  or  burning 
sense  of  want.  Not  that  Deity  suffers  pain ;  but  a  certain 
passion  must  form  the  base  of  action.  Realizing  that  object, 
the  darkness  becomes  light.  That  light— the  Son— had  not 
been,  but  for  the  darkness — the  Father.  Then  from  the  two, 
which  are  one,  arise,  in  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  archetypal  Forms 
of  the  universe.  Thus,  from  the  depth  of  the  divine  nature 
itself  spring  these  opposites,  Power  and  Grace,  Wrath  and 
Love,  Darkness  and  Light ;  and  thence,  by  a  combination  of 
forces,  the  manifestation  of  God  in  the  quickened,  changeful 
universe.  But  for  such  antithesis  God  had  remained  un- 
revealed.  Without  so  much  of  antagonism  as  is  essential  to 
action,  the  Divine  Being  had  not  realized  the  glory  of  his 
nature. 

At  the  same  time,  Behmen  carefully  excludes  the  notion  of 
modern  pantheism,  that  the  Divine  Idea  develops  itself  by  a 
process,  and  grows  as  the  world  grows.*  *  I  have  to  relate  in 
succession,'  he  would  say,  '  what  takes  place  simultaneously  in 
God, — to  describe  separately  what  is  one  in  Him.  He  needs 
no  method,  no  medium.  The  Eternal  Nature  is  not  his  in- 
strument for   creating    the   visible   universe.      Thought   and 

^  See  Note  on  p.  121. 


c.  8-1  The  Yea  and  the  Nay.  1 09 

realization,  with  God,  take  place  together,  and  are  in  Him 
identical.'  So,  in  describing  a  landscape,  we  have  to  relate 
severally  the  sounds  and  appearances  of  birds  and  clouds,  hills 
and  waters.  But  to  him  who  is  on  the  spot,  the  birds  sing,  the 
waters  shine,  the  clouds  fly,  the  trees  bow  on  the  hill,  and  the 
corn  wav.es  along  the  valley,  at  one  and  the  same  time.  His 
senses  are  the  focus  of  the  whole  :  he  sits  in  the  centre.  But 
description  must  travel  the  circumference. 

We  now  arrive  once  more  at  Behmen's  *  Yea  and  Nay' — that 
theory  of  antithesis  before  noticed  :  his  explanation  of  the 
origin  of  Evil.  These  Contraries  are  his  trade-winds,  whereby 
he  voyages  to  and  fro,  and  traverses  with  such  facility  the 
whole  system  of  things.  He  teaches  that  the  Divine  Unity,  in 
its  manifestation  or  self-realization,  parts  into  two  principles, 
variously  called  Light  and  Darkness,  Joy  and  Sorrow,  Fire  and 
Light,  Wrath  and  Love,  Good  and  Evil.  Without  Avhat  is 
termed  the  Darkness  and  the  Fire,  there  would  be  no  Love  and 
Light.  Evil  is  necessary  to  manifest  Good.  Not  that  anything 
is  created  by  God  for  evil.  In  everything  is  both  good  and 
evil  :  the  predominance  decides  its  use  and  destiny.  What  is 
so  much  pain  and  evil  in  hell,  is,  in  heaven,  so  much  joy  and 
goodness.  The  bitter  fountain  and  the  sweet  flow  originally 
from  one  divine  Source.  The  angels  and  the  devils  are  both 
in  God,  of  whom,  and  in  whom,  all  live  and  move.  But  from 
their  divine  basis,  or  root,  the  former  draw  joy  and  glory,  the 
latter  shame  and  woe.  The  point  of  collision  is  the  gate  of 
anguish  and  of  bliss. 

Thus  Behmen,  from  far  away,  echoes  Heraclitus,  and  declares 
Strife  the  father  of  all  things.  What  were  Virtue,  he  would 
ask,  without  temptation  ?  In  life's  warfare  lies  its  greatness. 
Our  full  wealth  of  being  is  only  realized  by  a  struggle  for  very 
life  Not  till  the  height  of  the  conflict  between  Siegfried  and 
the  dragon — not  till  the  mountain  is  all  flames  and  earthquake 


1 10         TheosopJiy  in  tJie  Age  of  the  Rcfonnatioii.     [b.  vm. 


with  that  fearful  fight,  do  the  dwarfs  bring  out  their  hoard,  and 
untold  riches  glitter  round  the  victor. 

Behmen  was  by  no  means  the  first  to  devise  a  hypothesis  so 
plausible.  We  meet  with  it  in  quarters  widely  remote — in  the 
pantheism  of  Jelaleddin  Rumi  and  of  John  Scotus  Erigena. 
But  nowhere  does  it  occupy  so  central  a  place,  undergo  such 
full  development,  receive  such  copious  illustration,  as  in  the 
theosophy  of  the  Gorlitz  shoemaker. 

Like  most  of  those  attempts  to  explain  the  inexplicable  which 
have  proved  more  than  usually  attractive,  this  theory  has  its 
truth  and  its  falsehood.  It  is  true  that  the  harmonious  develop- 
ment of  life  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  successive  recon- 
ciliation of  contraries.  The  persistent  quality,  representing  our 
individuality  and  what  is  due  to  the  particular  self,  must  not 
exist  alone.  The  diftusive  quality,  or  fluent,  having  regard  only 
to  others,  must  not  exist  alone.  The  extreme  of  either  defeats 
itself.  Each  is  necessary  to,  or,  as  Behmen  would  say,  lies  in 
the  other.  The  two  factors  are  reconciled,  and  consummated 
in  a  higher  unity  when  the  command  is  obeyed — '  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbour  as  thyself.'  Towards  this  standard  all 
moral  'development  must  tend.  Pairs  of  principles,  like  the 
Personal  and  the  Relative,  the  Ideal  and  the  Actual,  &c. — at 
once  twin  and  rival — where  each  is  the  complement  of  the 
other,  are  very  numerous.  They  are  designed  for  union,  as 
heat  and  cold  combine  to  produce  a  temperate  or  habitable 
clime.  Had  Behmen  confined  his  theory  of  contraries  within 
such  limits,  we  might  have  questioned  his  expressions; — we 
must,  I  think,  have  admitted  his  principle. 

But  when  he  takes  good  and  evil  as  the  members  of  such  an 
antithesis,  he  is  deceived  by  an  apparent  likeness.  It  would  be 
a  strange  thing  should  any  one  declare  courage  and  meekness, 
lowliness  and  aspiration,  the  work  of  God  and  the  work  of  man, 
incapable  of  harmony.     It  is  still  more  strange  to  hear  any  man 


S.]  Behmciis  Theory fiJ.tAcious.  iii 


pronounce  any  harmony  possible  between  good  and  evil,  sin 
and  holiness.  The  former  set  of  terms  belong  to  one  family, 
the  latter  are  reciprocally  destructive,  totally  incompatible. 
Here  lies  Behmen's  fallacy. 

To  regard  goodness  as  a  quality  which  would  remain  inert 
and  apathetic  were  it  not  endowed  with  individuality  and  con- 
sistence by  evil,  and  goaded  to  activity  by  temptation,  is 
altogether  to  mistake  its  nature.  An  adequate  conception  of 
Virtue  must  require  that  it  be  benignly  active  within  its  allotted 
range. 

The  popular  saying  that  a  man  should  have  enough  of  the 
devil  in  him  to  keep  the  devil  from  him,  expresses  Behmen's 
doctrine.  But  the  proverb  has  truth  only  as  it  means  that  of 
two  evils  we  should  choose  the  less  :  supposing  imperfection 
inevitable,  better  too  much  self-will  than  too  much  pliability. 
It  is  true  that  greatness  of  soul  is  never  so  highly  developed  or 
so  grandly  manifest  as  amid  surrounding  evils.  But  it  is  not 
true  that  the  good  is  intrinsically  dependent  on  the  evil  for  its 
very  being  as  goodness.  No  one  will  maintain  that  He  in 
whom  there  was  no  sin  lacked  individuality  and  character,  or 
that  he  was  indebted  to  the  hostility  of  scribes  and  Pharisees 
for  his  glorious  perfectness.  Indeed,  such  a  position  would 
subvert  all  our  notions  of  right  and  wrong ;  for  Evil — the 
awakener  of  dormant  virtue — would  be  the  great  benefactor  of 
the  universe.  Sin  would  be  the  angel  troubling  that  stagnant 
Bethesda — mere  goodness,  and  educing  hidden  powers  of 
blessing. 

Moreover,  we  must  not  argue  from  the  present  to  the  original 
condition  of  man.  Nor  can  any  one  reasonably  rank  among 
the  causes  by  which  he  professes  to  account  for  sin,  that  which 
God  has  seen  fit  to  do  in  order  to  obviate  its  consequences. 
To  say,  '  where  sin  abounded,  grace  did  much  more  abound,' 
is  not  to  explain  the  origin  of  evil. 


1 1 2          Thcosophy  in  the  Age  of  ilic  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

Once  more,  if  evil  be  a  necessary  factor  in  our  development, 
that  world  from  which  all  evil  will  be  banished  cannot  be  an 
object  of  desire.  Heaven  seems  to  grow  wan  and  insipid.  To 
exhort  us  to  root  out  the  evil  of  our  nature  is  to  enjoin  a  kind 
of  suicide.  It  is  to  bid  us  annihilate  the  animating,  active  seed 
of  moral  progress.  So  death  is  life,  and  life  death.  Again,  if 
man's  nature  be  progressive  and  immortal,  his  immortality  must 
be  one  of  unending  conflict.  Modern  Pantheism  escapes  this 
conclusion  by  annihilating  personality,  and  by  resolving  the 
individual  into  the  All.  A  poor  solution,  surely — ^/^--solution. 
To  Behrnen,  no  consequence  could  have  been  more  repugnant. 
No  man  could  hold  more  strongly  than  did  he,  the  doctrine  of 
a  future  and  eternal  state,  determined  by  the  deeds  done  in  the 
body.  Yet  such  a  cessation  of  personality  might  be  logically 
urged  from  the  theory  which  seemed  to  him  triumphantly  to 
remove  so  much  perplexity.^ 

A  tale  of  chivalry  relates  how  fair  Astrid  wandered  in  the 
moonlight,  seeking  flowers  for  the  wreath  she  was  twining,  but 
always,  when  the  last  had  just  been  woven  in,  the  garland  would 
drop  asunder  in  her  hands,  and  she  must  begin  again  her  sad 
endeavour,  ever  renewed  and  ever  vain.  Human  speculation 
resembles  that  ghostly  maiden.  Each  fresh  attempt  has  all  but 
completed  the  circuit  of  our  logic.  But  one  link  remains,  and 
in  the  insertion  of  that  the  whole  fabric  falls  to  pieces.  It  is  a 
habit  with  fevered  Reason  to  dream  that  she  has  solved 
the  great  mystery  of  life.  And  when  Reason  does  so  dream, 
her  wild-eyed  sister,  Imagination,  is  sober  and  self-distrustful 
in  comparison. 

Neither  the  theist  nor  the  pantheist  can  claim  Behmen  as 
exclusively  his  own  He  would  perhaps  have  reckoned  their 
dispute  among  those  which  he  could  reconcile.     Certain  it  is, 

5  Here  I  am  much  indebted  to  the      question,  contained  in  Miiller's  Lehre 
masterly  discussion   of  the  theory  in      von  dcr  Siinde,  Buch  ii.  cap.  4. 


c.  8]  Thcist  and  Pantheist.  1 1 3 

that  he  holds,  in  combination,  the  doctrine  which  teaches  a 
God  within  the  world,  and  the  doctrine  which  proclaims  a  God 
above  it. 

Says  the  pantheist,  '  Do  you  believe  in  a  God  who  is  the 
heart  and  life  of  the  universe,  the  soul  of  that  vast  body,  the 
world  ?'  Behmen  answers,  '  Yes  ;  but  I  do  not  believe  in  a  God 
who  is  a  mere  vital  force — a  God  of  necessary  process — a  God 
lost  in  the  matter  He  has  evolved.' 

Says  the  theist,  '  Do  you  believe  in  a  God  who  has  Person- 
ality and  Character ;  who  creates  of  self-conscious  free-will  ; 
who  rules,  as  He  pleases,  the  work  of  his  hands?'  Behmen 
answers,  '  Yes ;  but  I  do  not  relegate  my  Deity  beyond  the 
skies.  I  believe  that  He  is  the  life  of  all  creatures,  all  sub- 
stance ;  that  He  dwelleth  in  me  ;  that  I  am  in  His  heaven,  if 
I  love  Him,  wherever  I  go  ;  that  the  universe  is  born  out 
of  Him  and  lives  in  Him.' 

Like  Erigena,  Behmen  supposed  that  the  '  Nothing,'  out  of 
which  God  made  all  things,  was  his  own  unrevealed  abstract 
nature,  called,  more  properly,  Non- being. 

And,  now,  to  Behmen's  version  of  the  story  of  our  world. 
He  tells  us  how  God  created  three  circles,  or  kingdoms  of 
spirits,  corresponding  to  the  three  persons  of  the  Trinity.  To 
each  a  monarch  and  seven  princes  were  assigned,  corresponding 
to  the  seven  Qualities  or  Fountain-Spirits.  One  of  these  angelic 
sovereigns,  Lucifer,  fell,  through  pride,  and  all  his  kingdom 
with  him.  Straightway,  as  the  inevitable  consequence  of  sin, 
the  operation  of  all  the  seven  Qualities  throughout  his  dominion 
became  perverted  and  corrupt.  The  Fiery  principle,  instead 
of  being  the  root  of  heavenly  glory,  became  a  principle  of  wrath 
and  torment.  The  Astringent  quality,  instead  of  ministering 
due  stability,  or  coherence,  became  hard  and  stubborn ;  the 
Sweet,  foul  and  putrescent ;  the  Bitter,  fierce  and  raging.  So 
with  all  the  rest.     Now,  it  so  happened  that  the  seventh  Quality 

OL.  II.  \ 


i  14        Theosophy  in  ihe  Age  of  the  Refonnatioii.      [b.  vnt. 

of  Lucifer's  realm  coincided,  in  space,  with  this  world  of  ours. 
This  earth,  therefore, — once  a  province  of  the  heavenly  world, 
— was  broken  up  into  a  chaos  of  wrath  and  darkness,  roaring 
with  the  hubbub  of  embattled  elements.  Before  man  was 
created,  nature  had  fallen.  The  creative  word  of  God  brought 
order  into  the  ruins  of  this  devastated  kingdom.  Out  of  the 
chaos  He  separated  sun  and  planets,  earth  and  elements." 

In  the  Black  Forest  lies  a  lake,  bordered  deep  with  lilies. 
As  the  traveller  gazes  on  that  white  waving  margin  of  the  dark 
waters,  he  is  told  that  those  lilies,  on  the  last  moonlighted  mid- 
night, assumed  their  spirit-forms, — were  white-robed  maidens, 
dancing  on  the  mere ;  till,  at  a  warning  voice,  they  resumed,  ere 
daybreak,  the  shape  of  flowers.  Similarly,  on  Behmen's  strange 
theory,  all  our  natural  has  been  previously  spiritual  beauty. 
The  material  of  this  world  was,  erewhile,  the  fine  substance  of 
an  angel  realm.  All  our  fair  scenes  are  as  much  below  the 
higher  forms  of  celestial  fairness,  as  are  the  material  flowers  of 
lower  rank  in  loveliness  than  the  phantom  dancers  of  that 
haunted  lake.  The  'Heavenly  Materiality,'  or  'Glassy  Sea,'  of 
the  angelic  kingdom,  was  a  marvellous  mirror  of  perfect  shapes 
and  colours,  of  sounds  and  virtues.  Therein  arose,  in  endless 
variety,  the  ideal  Forms  of  heaven — ^jubilant  manifestations  of 
the  divine  fulness,  gladdening  the  spirits  of  the  praising  angels 
with  a  blessedness  ever  new.  All  the  growth  and  productive 
effort  of  our  earth  is  an  endeavour  to  bring  forth  as  then  it 
brought  forth.  Every  property  of  nature,  quickened  from  its 
fall  by  the  divine  command — '  Be  fruitful  and  multiply,'  strives 
to  produce  in  time  as  it  did  in  eternity.'     But  for  that  fall,  this 

''  Aurora,  cap.  ix.  §  42  ;  cap.  xviii.  deity,  does  not  remove  God  from  the 

§  10-15  ;  cap.   xxiii.  §§  92,    &c.     The  universe.     Theism  ought  to  represent 

remarks     in    the    text,      concerning  the  true  mean  between  the  deism  which 

Behmen's  position  as  between  theism  relegates'a  divine  Mechanician  far  from 

and  pantheism,   are  only  true   if  the  the  work  of  his  hands,  and  the  panthe- 

vvord  theism  be  there  understood  as  ism  which  submerges  him  beneath  it, 
equivalent  to  deism.     For  theism,  un-         7  Aurora,  cap.  iv.  §§  10, 11.     Comp 

deistanding  by  it  belief  in  a  personal  5  15,  and  also  cap.  xxi.  §  37. 


e.g.]  AdavCs  Fait.  115 

earth  had  never  held  perilous  sands  nor  cruel  rocks ;  never  put 
forth  the  poisonous  herb,  nor  bred  the  ravenous  beast ;  and  never 
would  earthquake,  pestilence,  or  tempest,  the  deadly  outbreaks 
of  water  or  of  fire,  have  accompanied  the  warfare  of  disordered 
elements.  The  final  fires  will  redeem  nature,  purging  away  the 
dross,  and  closing  the  long  strife  of  time. 

Adam  was  created  to  be  the  restoring  angel  of  this  world. 
His  nature  was  twofold.  Within,  he  had  an  angelic  soul  and 
body,  derived  from  the  powers  of  heaven.  Without,  he  had  a 
life  and  body  derived  from  the  powers  of  earth.  The  former 
was  given  him  that  he  might  be  separate  from,  and  superior  to 
the  world.  He  was  endowed  with  the  latter,  that  he  might  be 
connected  with,  and  operative  in  the  world.  His  external 
nature  sheltered  his  inner  from  all  acquaintance  with  the  pro 
perties  of  our  corrupted  earth.  His  love  and  his  obedience  sur- 
rounded him  with  a  perpetual  paradise  of  his  own.  He  could 
not  feel  the  fierceness  of  fire,  the  rigour  of  cold;  he  was  inacces- 
sible to  want  or  pain.  He  was  designed  to  be  the  father  of  a 
like  angelic-human  race,  who  should  occupy  and  reclaim  the 
earth  for  God, — keeping  down  the  ever-emerging  Curse,  and 
educing  and  multiplying  the  Blessing  which  God  had  implanted 

But  the  will  of  Adam  gradually  declined  from  the  inward 
paradisiacal  life  towards  the  life  of  this  world.  He  commenced 
his  downward  course  by  desiring  to  know  the  good  and  evil  of 
the  world  about  him.  Then  Eve  was  fashioned  out  of  him,  and 
the  distinction  of  sex  introduced.  This  was  a  remedial  inter- 
position to  check  his  descent.  It  was  deemed  better  that  he 
should  love  the  feminine  part  of  his  own  nature  rather  than  the 
external  world.^  Each  step  of  decline  was  mercifully  met  by 
some  new  aid  on  the  part  of  God,  but  all  in  vain.  He  ate  of 
the  earthly  tree,  and  the  angelic  life  within  him  became  extinct. 

Behmen  contends  stoutly  that  no  arbitrary  trial  or  penalty 
8  Aurora,  cap.  v,  J  4 ;  cap.  xvii.  J  16. 

•     I  2 


1 1 6        TJieosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 


was  imposed  on  Adam.  No  divine  wrath  visited  his  sin  on  his 
descendants.  His  HabiHty  to  suffering  and  death  was  the 
natural  consequence  (according  to  the  divine  order)  of  his 
breaking  away  from  God,  and  faUing  from  the  angel  to  the 
animal  life.  It  is  characteristic  of  Behmen's  theology  to  resolve 
acts  of  judgment,  or  of  sovereign  intervention,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, into  the  operation  of  law.  Thus,  he  will  not  believe  that 
God  inflicts  suffering  on  lost  souls  or  devils.  Their  own  dark 
and  furious  passions  are  their  chain  and  flame.  He  shares  this 
tendency  in  common  with  most  of  the  Protestant  mystics.  And 
I  am  by  no  means  prepared  to  say  that  our  mystics  are  alto- 
gether wrong  on  this  matter. 

No  sooner  had  man  fallen,  than  the  mercy  of  God  implanted 
in  him  the  seed  of  redemption.  He  lodged  in  the  depths  of 
our  nature  a  hidden  gift  of  the  Spirit,  the  inner  light,  the 
internal  'serpent-bruiser,'  the  light  that  lighteth  every  man 
that  Cometh  into  the  world.  All  our  beginnings  of  desire 
towards  God  and  heaven  are  the  working  of  this  indwelling 
seed  of  life.  Thus,  salvation  is  wholly  of  grace.  At  the  same 
time,  it  rests  with  us  whether  we  will  realize  or  smother  the 
nascent  blessing.  Man  is  the  arbiter  of  his  own  destiny,  and 
voluntarily  develops,  from  the  depths  of  his  nature,  his  heaven 
or  his  hell. 

Lessons  of  self  abandonment,  similar  to  those  of  the  Thcologia 
Gcrnianica,  are  reiterated  by  Jacob  Behmen.  We  are  never  to 
forget  the  '  Nothingness'  of  man,  the  'All'  of  God.  He  pro- 
nounces means  and  ordinances  good  only  as  they  lead  us 
directly  to  God, — as  they  prepare  us  to  receive  the  divine 
oj^eration.  With  Behmen,  as  with  the  mystics  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  redemption  is  our  deliverance  from  the  restless  isola- 
tion of  Self,  or  Ownhood,  and  our  return  to  union  with  God. 
It  is  a  new  birth,  a  divine  life,  derived  from  Christ,  the  true  vine.* 
1  Aurora.  §   27  ;    cap.   xiv.  §  104  ;    cap.  x,  §§  42,  65  ;  xix.  §  50. 


c.  8.]         Spirit  and  Aim  of  Behmens  TcacJiiug.  117 


But  to  this  idea  the  theosophists  add  another.  They  have  a 
physical  as  well  as  a  spiritual  regeneration,  and  believe  in  the 
revival,  within  the  regenerate,  of  a  certain  internal  or  angelic 
body.  The  Lutheran  doctrine  of  consubstantiation  gave  much 
encouragement  to  such  fancies.  According  to  Weigel,  Christ 
had  a  twofold  body — one  truly  human ;  another,  called  the 
heavenly,  a  procession  from  the  divine  nature.  Furthermore, 
theosophy  extends  the  influence  of  redemption  to  external 
nature.  In  the  latter-day,  'the  time  of  the  Lilies,'  all  men 
will  be  the  true  servants  of  Christ,  our  race  will  have  recovered 
its  lost  lordship  over  nature,  and  the  Philosopher's  Stone  will 
be  discovered.  That  is,  man  will  be  able  to  extract  from  every 
substance  its  hidden  perfectness  and  power. 

The  strongly  subjective  bent  of  Behmen's  mind  has  its  good 
as  well  as  its  evil.  He  never  long  loses  sight  of  his  great  aim 
— the  awakening  and  sustenance  of  the  inward  life.  That  life 
was  imperilled  by  formalism,  by  fatalism,  by  dogmatical  disputes, 
by  the  greedy  superstition  of  the  gold-seeker.  So  Behmen 
warns  men  incessantly,  that  no  assent  to  orthodox  propositions 
can  save  them.*"  He  argues  against  the  Hyper-Calvinist,  and 
against  what  he  regarded  as  the  Antinomian  consequence  of  the 
doctrine  of  '  imputed  righteousness.'  "  He  was  a  man  of  peace, 
— little  disposed  to  add  one  more  to  so  many  controversies  ; 
seldom  entering  the  lists  unless  challenged.''  He  justly  con- 
demned as  profitless  the  Millenarian  speculations  in  which  some 
about  him  were  entangled.'^  He  had  no  sympathy  with  those 
who  endeavoured  to  make  ancient  Jewish  prophecy  the  fortune- 
teller of  the  present  day.    He  declared  that  the  true  Philosopher's 

"^  For  example,  in  the  Dici  Prin-  not  far  distant  (Aurora,  iv.  2),  but  his 

cipicn,  cap.  xxvi.  §§  13-34,  and  in  the  remarks  on  the  vanity  of  eschatolog  leal 

.^«A-^;'rt,  cap.  xii.  §  65.  speculations  generally  might  be  read 

•'  See  Note  on  p.  121.  with  advantage  by  some  ol  our  modern 

'*   Thcos.  Sendbr.  46,  §§  51-54-    See  interpreters    of   prophecy.      See     the 

also  Note  on  page  122.  letters   to   Paul   Kaym,    Thcos.    ScitJ, 

'^  Behmen  supposed  the  latter  d>iy  viii.  and  xi. 


1 1 S         TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 


Stone,  to  be  coveted  by  all,  was  '  the  new  life  in  Christ  Jesus.' " 
Only  by  victory  over  Self  could  any  win  victory  over  nature. 
To  the  selfish  and  the  godless  no  secrets  would  be  revealed. 
Such  men  were  continually  within  reach  of  wonders  they  might 
not  grasp.  So  the  sinful  Sir  Launcelot  slept  by  the  ruined 
chapel,  and  had  neither  grace  nor  power  to  awake,  though  before 
him  stood  the  holy  vessel  of  the  Sangreall  on  its  table  of  silver. 
The  treatise  on  the  Three  Principles  abounds  in  counsels  and 
exhortation  designed  to  promote  practical  holiness.  The  Buch- 
lein  von  der  Jiciligen  Gchet  is  a  collection  of  prayers  for  the  pri- 
vate use  of  'awakened  and  desirous  souls,'  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  those  in  Doddridge's  Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion. 

When  Behmen  finds  that  Scripture  contradicts  his  scheme, 
on  some  minor  point,  he  will  frequently,  instead  of  resorting  to 
a  forced  allegorical  interpretation,  break  away  without  disguise 
from  the  authority  of  its  text.  Thus,  he  says  more  than  once, 
concerning  passages  in  the  Mosaic  account  of  the  creation,  '  It 
is  evident  that  the  dear  man  Moses  did  not  write  this,  for  it  is 
contrary  to,'  &c.,  &c.^'' 

Such,  then,  is  the  track  of  Behmen's  journeying  across  the 
speculative  wilderness,  following  the  fiery  pillar  of  an  imaginary 
■  illumination — a  pillar,  be  it  observed,  much  like  that  column 
of  glory  which,  as  we  stand  upon  the  sea-shore,  descends  to  us 
from  the  setting  sun, — a  luminous  line  which  moves  as  we 
move,  and  which,  whatever  point  we  occupy,  glows  from  the 
ripples  at  our  feet  up  to  the  fiery  horizon  beneath  which  day  is 
sinking.  Behmen's  work  was  done  chiefly  among  the  educated. 
Had  his  mission  been  to  the  lower  orders,  we  should  probably 
have  heard  of  him  as  the  founder  of  a  sect.  His  object  was, 
however,  at  once  to  awaken  the  life  and  expound  the  philosophy, 
of  religion,  within  the  Lutheran  Church.     He  called  attention 

'^  Theos.  Sendbr.  x.  §  20.     See  also  ^^  Aurora,   cap.  xx.  §  i  ;    xxii.  26. 

Note  on  page  123.  See  also  second  Note  on  page  123. 


c.  8.]  Merits  of  BcJiinen's  Thcosophy.  119 

to  aspects  of  Christian  truth  which  the  systematic  theology  of 
that  day  had  too  much  overlooked.  The  extensive  circulation 
of  his  books,  and  the  general  welcome  given  to  the  main  posi- 
tions of  his  doctrine,  show  that  his  teaching  supplied  a  real 
want  in  those  times.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  one  consi- 
derable class  of  minds,  repelled  by  the  assumption  or  the  harsh- 
ness of  the  current  orthodoxy,  was  attracted  once  more  to 
religion  under  the  more  genial  form  in  which  Behmen  presented 
it.  Others  were  shaken  from  the  sleep  of  formalism  by  his 
vehement  expostulations.  When  the  Creed  had  so  largely 
superseded  the  Word, — when  Protestants  were  more  embittered 
against  each  other  than  brave  against  the  common  foe,  the 
broader,  deeper  doctrine  of  Behmen  would  ofter  to  many  a 
blessed  refuge.  For  gold  and  precious  stones  shine  among  his 
wood  and  stubble.  The  darker  aspect  which  some  theologians 
had  given  to  the  Divine  Sovereignty  seemed  to  pass  away,  as 
the  trembler  studied  Behmen's  reassuring  page.  Apart  from 
scientific  technicalities,  and  the  nomenclature  of  his  system, 
Behmen's  style  and  spirit  were  mainly  moulded  upon  Luther's 
German  Bible.  Any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  look, 
not  into  the  Aurora,  but  into  the  Book  of  the  Three  Principles, 
will  find,  along  with  much  clouded  verbosity  and  a  certain 
crabbed  suggestiveness,  a  racy  idiomatic  cast  of  expression,  a 
hearty  manliness  of  tone,  indicating  very  plainly  that  Behmen 
had  studied  man,  and  the  book  which  manifests  man. 

Though  his  voice  is,  for  us,  so  faint  and  distant,  we  feel  how 
near  he  must  have  come  to  the  hearts  of  his  time.  Through 
volumes  of  speculative  vapour,  glance  and  glow  the  warm  emo- 
tions of  the  man,  in  his  apostrophes,  appeals,  and  practical 
digressions.  His  philosophy  is  never  that  of  the  artificial 
abstraction-monger,  or  the  pedantic  book-worm.  He  writes  of 
men  and  for  them  as  though  he  loved  them.  Modern  idealism 
expresses  its^f  with  a  grace  to  w'nich  the  half-educated  crafts- 


120         Theosophy  in  tJu  Age  of  the  Rcfonnation.     [n.  vm. 


man  was  a  total  stranger.  But  its  rhetorical  adornment  is  a 
painted  flame  compared  with  Behmen's  fire.  UnUke  the  earUer 
mystics,  his  theosophy  embraces  the  whole  of  man.  Unlike  so 
much  recent  speculation,  it  is  wrought  out  more  by  the  aspira- 
tion of  the  soul  than  the  ambition  of  the  intellect.  Amidst  the 
fantastic  disorder  of  his  notions,  and  the  strange  inequaUties  of 
his  insight — now  so  clear  and  piercing,  now  so  puerile  or  per- 
verse,— a  single  purpose  stands  unquestionable, — he  desired  to 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men.  His  life  Avas  a  waking  dream; 
but  never  did  mystical  somnambulist  more  sincerely  intend 
service  to  man  and  praise  to  God. 


Note  to  page  107. 

Behmen  derives  Qiialitiit  from  quallcii,  or  qiiellen  (our  well),  and  under- 
stands by  it  the  characteristic  virtue  or  operation  of  anything.  Thus  the  seven 
Qualities  are  the  seven  /•'6i«;/'i?///-Spirits — the  prolific  sources  of  their  several 
species  of  influence.  Aurora,  i.  §  3.  The  notion  of  pain  (qiial)  in  giving  birth 
enters  also  into  his  conception  of  Quality. 

The  description  of  these  seven  Qualities  occupies  (amidst  many  digressions) 
a  considerable  portion  of  the  Atirora,  and  is  repeated,  with  additions  and 
varieties  of  expression,  throughout  all  his  larger  works.  The  summary  here 
given  is  derived  principally  from  the  account  in  the  Aurora,  and  the  Tabula 
Principioriim,  Wercke,  vol.  iv.  p.  268.  Similar  classifications  and  definitions 
are  contained  in  the  tliree  first  chapters  of  the  Drci  Frincipicn,  and  with  more 
clearness  and  precision  in  the  Mysterium  Magnum,  cap.  vi.  Compare  also 
especially  Aurora,  cap.  iv.  §§  8,  9  ;  xiv.  §§  89,  itc.  ;  and  xiii.  70-78. 

These  seven  Fountain-Spirits,  or  Mothers  of  Nature,  are  a  contrivance  really 
novel.  Paracelsus  bequeathed  to  Behmen  the  term  Mysterium  Magnum, 
applying  it  to  the  Chaos  whence  he  supposed  light  and  darkness,  heaven  and 
hell,  toderive  their  origin.  But  Behmen's  furniture  or  fitting-up  of  the  idea  is 
wholly  original.  Of  the  early  Gnostics  he  could  know  nothing,  and  his  Hep- 
tarchy of  N.ature  is  totally  distinct  from  theirs.  Basilides  has  seven  intellectual 
and  moral  impersonations, — the  first  rank  of  successive  emanations  of  seven, 
comprised  in  his  mystical  Abraxas.  Saturninus  has  seven  star-spirits 
— the  lowest  emanations  in  his  scheme,  and  bordering  on  matter.  Ancient 
Gnosticism  devised  these  agencies  to  bridge  the  space  between  the  supreme 
Spirit  and  Hyle.  But  Behmen  recognises  no  such  gulph,  and  requires  no  such 
media.  With  him,  the  thought  becomes  at  once  the  act  of  God.  Matter  is 
not  a  foreign  inert  substance,  on  which  God  works,  like  a  sculptor.  The 
material  universe  exhibits,  incorporate,  those  very  attributes  which  constitute 
the  divine  glory.  Nature  is  not  merely  of,  but  out  of,  God.  Did  there  lie  no 
divineness  in  it,  the  Divine  Being  would  (on  Behmen's  theory)  be  cut  off  from 
contact  with  it.  With  the  Sephiroth  of  the  Cabbala  Behmen  may  possibly  have 
had  acquaintance.  But,  in  the  Cabbala,  each  Sephira  is  dependent  on  that 
immediately  above  it,  as  in  the  hierarchies  of  Proclus  and  Dionysius  Areopagita. 


c.  S-]       TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Rcfonnation.         1 2 1 

Behmen's  seven  equal  Qualities,  reciproeally  producing  and  produced,  are  not 
links  in  a  descending  chain,  — they  are  expressions  for  the  collective  possibilities 
of  being.  Compare  with  tiiem  the  seven  lower  Sephiroth  of  the  Cabbala,  called 
Might,  Beauty,  Triumpli,  Glory,  Foundation,  and  Kingdom.  Here  we  have 
mere  arbitrary  personifications  of  the  magnificence  displayed  in  creation. 
Behmen's  qualities  are  arbitrary,  it  is  true.  They  might  have  been  different  in 
name,  in  nature,  in  number,  and  the  fundamental  principles  of  the  system  still 
retained.  But  who  could  have  resisted  the  obvious  advantages  of  the  sacred 
planetary  number,  seven  ?  Behmen,  however,  goes  much  deeper  than  the 
Cabbalists.  He  does  not  idly  hypostalise  visible  attributes.  His  attractive  and 
diffusive  Qualities  are  the  results  of  generalisation.  His  Fountain-Spirits  are 
the  seminal  principles  of  all  being.  They  are,  he  believes,  the  vital  laws  of  uni- 
versal nature.  They  are  F.nergies  operative,  through  innumerable  transforma- 
tions, in  every  range  of  existence, — in  heaven,  on  earth,  and  under  the  earth. 

Note  to  page  108. 

In  the  following  passage,  Behmen  endeavours  to  explain  himself,  and  repels 
the  charge  of  material  pantheism. 

'  I  know  the  sophist  will  accuse  me  for  saying  that  the  power  of  God  is  in  the 
fruits  of  the  earth,  and  identifies  itself  with  the  generative  processes  of  nature. 
But,  harkye,  friend,  open  thine  eyes  a  moment.  I  ask  tliee — How  hath  Para- 
dise existence  in  this  world?  ....  Is  it  in  this  world  or  without  it?  In  the 
power  of  God,  or  in  the  elements?  Is  the  power  of  God  revealed  or  hidden? 
....  Tell  me,  doth  not  God  live  in  time  also?  Is  He  not  all  in  all?  Is  it 
not  written,  "  Am  not  I  He  that  filleth  all  things,"  and  "  Thine  is  the  kingdom, 
the  power,  and  the  glory,  forever?" 

'  Here  I  bethink  myself.  I  would  stand  clear  of  all  blame  from  your  miscon- 
ception. I  say  not  that  Nature  is  God,  far  less  that  the  fruits  of  the  earth  are 
He.  I  say  God  gives  to  all  life  its  power — be  that  power  used  for  good  or  evil, — 
gives  power  to  every  creature  according  to  its  desire.  He  Himself  is  all,  yet  is 
not  in  all  natures  to  be  called  God,  but  only  where  there  is  light,  in  respect  of 
that  {iiach  dem  Liech(c)  wherein  He  Himself  dwells,  and  shines  witli  power 
tlirough  all  his  nature.  He  communicates  his  power  to  all  his  nature  and 
works  {alien  scincn  IVcscn  uiid  \Ve>xkc7i),  and  everything  appropriates  that 
power  of  his  according  to  its  property.  One  appropriates  darkness,  another 
light  :  tiie  appetite  of  each  demands  what  is  proper  to  it,  and  the  whole  sub- 
stance is  still  all  of  God,  whether  good  or  evil.  For  from  Him,  and  through  Him, 
are  all  things  ;  and  what  is  not  of  his  love  is  of  his  wrath. 

'  Paradise  is  still  in  the  world,  but  man  is  not  in  Paradise,  unless  he  be  born 
again  of  God  ;  in  that  case  he  stands  therein  ii\  his  new  birth,  and  not  with  tlie 
Adam  of  the  four  elements, '  &c.,  &c. — Dc  Sii^natura  Rcrum,  cap.  viii.  §§  45-47. 

Note  to  page  117. 

In  his  practical  writings,  and  especially  in  his  letters,  Behmen  handles  well 
the  great  theme  of  the  life  of  Christ  in  us.  The  prayer  of  salutation  in  most  of 
his  letters  is— '  The  open  fountain  in  the  heart  of  Christ  Jesus  refresh  and 
illumine  us  ever.' 

Hear  him,  on  this  matter,  in  a  letter  to  N.  N.,  dated  1623  : — 
'That  man  is  no  Christian  who  doth  merely  comfort  himself  with  the  suffering, 
death,   and  satisfaction  of  Christ,   and  doth  impute  it  to  himself  as   a  gift  of 

favour,  remaining  still  himself  a  wild  beast,  and  un regenerate I  say, 

therefoie,  that  no  show  of  grace  imputed   from  without  can  make  a  true  Clins- 


122         Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [u.  vm. 

tian.  Sin  is  not  forgiven  liini  by  the  speaking  of  a  word  once  for  all  from 
without,  as  a  lord  of  this  world  may  give  a  murderer  his  life  by  an  outward  act 
of  favour.     No,  this  availeth  nothing  with  God. 

'There  is  no  grace  whereby  we  can  come  to  adoption,  save  simply  in  the 
blood  and  deatli  of  Christ.  For  Him  alone  hath  God  appointed  to  be  a  throne 
of  grace  in  His  own  love,  which  He  hath  set  in  Him,  in  the  sweet  name  Jesus 
(from  Jehovah).  He  is  the  only  sacrifice  God  accepteth  to  reconcile  His 
anger. 

'  But  if  this  said  sacrifice  is  to  avail  for  me,  it  must  be  wrought  //;  me.  The 
Father  must  communicate  or  beget  His  Son  in  my  desire-of-faith  (Glaiibens- 
l>cgie?-dc),  so  that  my  faith's  hunger  may  apprehend  Him  in  His  word  of 
promise.  Then  I  put  Him  on,  in  His  entire  process  of  justification,  in  my  in- 
ward ground  ;  and  straiglitway  there  begins  in  me  the  killing  of  the  wrath  of 
the  devil,  death,  and  hell,  from  the  inward  power  of  Christ's  death. 

'  For  I  can  do  nothing  ;  I  am  dead  to  myself  ;  but  Ciirist  worketh  in  me  when 
He  ariseth  within.  So  am  I  inwardly  dead,  as  to  my  true  man  ;  and  He  is  my 
life  ;  the  life  I  live,  I  live  in  Him,  and  not  in  mine-hood  [Mcinhcit],  for  grace 
slays  my  will  and  establisheth  itself  lord  in  place  of  my  self-hood  [Ichkeit),  so 
that  I  am  an  instrument  of  God  wherewith  He  doth  what  He  will. 

'  Henceforth  I  live  in  two  kingdoms  ; — with  my  outward  mortal  man,  in  the 
vanity  of  time,  wherein  the  yoke  of  sin  yet  liveth,  which  Christ  taketh  on  Him- 
self in  the  inward  kingdom  of  the  divine  world,  and  helpeth  my  soul  to  bear  it. 
....  The  Holy  Scripture  everywhere  testifieth  that  we  are  justified  from  sin, 
not  by  meritorious  works  of  ours,  but  through  the  blood  and  deatl^Df  Christ, 
jMany  teach  this,  but  few  of  them  rightly  understand  it.' 

The  other  kingdom  which,  in  his  haste,  Behmen  forgot  to  specify,  is  the 
inward  world  of  spiritual  and  eternal  life,  which  he  calls  Paradise. —  Theosoph- 
ische  Sendbricfe,  xlvi.  §§  7,  &.c.  He  inveighs  frequently  against  an  antino- 
mian  Calvinism.  But  if  any  one  will  compare  this  letter  with  Calvin's 
Institutes  III.  i.  and  ill.  ii.  24,  he  will  find  that,  on  the  doctrine  of  union  with 
Christ,  Calvin  and  Behmen,  in  spite  of  all  their  differences,  hold  language  pre- 
cisely similar. 

Note  to  page  117. 

Behmen  was  well  entitled  to  teach  that  lesson  of  tolerance  which  his  age  had 
so  forgotten.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  says,  '  I  judge  no  man  ;  that  anathema- 
tizing one  of  another  is  an  empty  prating.  The  Spirit  of  God  Himself  judgetli 
all  things.  If  He  be  in  us,  why  need  we  trouble  ourselves  about  such  idle  chatter? 
On  the  contrary,  I  rejoice  much  rather  in  the  gifts  of  my  brethren,  and  if  any 
of  them  have  received  another  gift  to  utter  than  have  I,  why  should  I  therefore 
condemn  them  ?  Doth  one  herb,  or  flower,  or  tree,  say  to  another.  Thou  art 
sour  and  dark  ;  I  cannot  stand  in  thy  neighbourhood  ?  Have  they  not  all  one 
common  Mother,  whence  they  grow  ?  Even  so  do  all  souls,  all  men,  proceed 
from  One.  Why  boast  we  of  ourselves  as  the  children  of  God,  if  we  are  no 
wiser  than  the  flowers  and  herbs  of  the  field,'  &c. —  Thcos.  Scndbr,  12,  §§  35,  36. 
Again,  in  the  same  letter  (5  61),  'Doth  not  a  bee  gather  honey  cut  of  many 
flowers  ;  and  though  some  flowers  be  far  better  than  others,  what  cares  the  bee 
for  that  ?  She  takes  what  serves  her  purpose.  Should  she  leave  her  sting  in 
the  flower,  if  its  juices  are  not  to  her  taste,  as  man  doth  in  his  disdainfulness? 
Men  strive  about  the  husk,  but  the  noble  life-juice  they  forsake.' 

Exhortations  to  try  the  spirits,  and  warnings  like  those  adverted  to,  not 
lightly  to  take  whatever  fancies  may  enter  the  brain,  for  special  revelation,  are 
given  in  Tlieos.  Send.  xi.  §  64.  The  test  he  gives  for  decision  between  a  true 
and  a  false  claim  to  revelation,  is  the  sincerity  of  desire  for  the  divine — not 


c.  8]        Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation. 

self-glory;  a  genuine  charity  towards  man;  atnie  hunger,  'not  after  bread, 
but  God.' — Compare  Aurora,  cap.  xix.  §  77. 

Note  to  page  118. 

Carricrc,  in  an  excellent  summary  of  Behmen's  doctrine,  is  inclined  to  idealize 
his  expressions  on  this  point.  He  would  regard  Behmen's  language  concerning 
the  fall  and  restitution  of  nature  as  symbolical,  and  understand  him  only  in  a 
subjective  sense.  But  sucli,  I  feel  persuaded,  was  not  Behmen's  meaning.  The 
idea  that  man,  himself  disordered,  sees  nature  and  the  world  as  out  of  joint, — 
that  the  restoration  of  light  within  him  will  glorify  the  universe  without,  is  com- 
paratively modern.  The  original  design  of  man,  in  Behmen's  system,  requires 
a  restitution  in  whicli  man  shall  be  once  more  the  angelic  lord  of  life, — the 
summoner  and  monarch  of  all  its  potencies.  Carriere  has  pointed  out,  with 
just  discrimination,  the  distinction  between  Behmen's  position  and  that  of  Ger- 
man pantheism  in  our  times.  But  on  some  points  he  seems  to  me  to  view  him 
too  much  with  the  eyes  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  his  judgment  is,  on  the 
whole,  too  favouraiile.  See  his  Phil.  Weltanschauung  der  Reformatlonzeit, 
chap.  xi. 

The  De  Slgnahira  Rerum  abounds  in  examples  of  that  curious  admixture  of 
chemical  or  astrological  processes  and  piienomena  with  the  facts  of  the  gospel 
narrative,  to  which  allusion  has  been  made.  The  following  specimen  may 
suffice  : — 

'  Adam  had  brought  his  will  into  the  poison  of  the  external  Mercury.  So, 
then,  must  Christ,  as  Love,  yield  up  his  will  also  in  the  venomous  Mercury. 
Adam  ate  of  the  evil  tree  ;  Christ  must  eat  of  the  wrath  of  God  ;  and  as  it  came 
to  pass  inwardly  in  the  spirit,  so  must  it  also  outwardly  in  the  flesh.  And  even 
thus  is  it  in  the  philosophic  work.  Mercury,  in  the  philosophic  work, 
signifieth  the  Pharisees,  who  cannot  endure  the  dear  child.  When 
he  sues  it,  it  gives  him  trembling  and  anguish.  Thus  trembles  Venus 
aiso,  before  the  poison  of  the  wrathful  Mercury :  they  are,  one 
with  the  other,  as  though  a  sweat  went  from  them,  as  the  Artista  will  see.  Mars 
saith,  '  I  am  the  fire-heart  in  the  body  :  Saturn  is  my  might,  and  Mercury  is 
my  life  :  I  will  not  endure  Love.  I  will  swallow  it  up  in  my  wrath."  He 
signifies  the  Devil,  in  the  wrath  of  God  ;  and  because  he  cannot  accomplish  his 
purpose,  he  awakens  Saturn,  as  the  Impression,  who  signifies  the  secular 
government,  and  therewith  seeks  to  seize  Venus,  but  cannot  succeed  ;  for  she  is 
to  him  a  deadly  poison.  Mercury  can  still  less  bear  the  prospect  of  losing  his 
dominion, ^ — as  the  high  priests  thought  Christ  would  take  away  their  dominion, 
because  He  said  He  was  the  Son  of  God.  So  Mercury  is  greatly  troubled  about 
the  child  of  Venus,'  &c.,  cS:c. — De  Signatura  Rerum,  cap.  xi.  §§  18-22. 

Note  to  page  118. 

A  word  or  two  should  find  place  here  concerning  the  fate  of  Behmen's 
doctrine.  His  friends,  Balthasar  Walther  and  Abraham  von  Franckenberg, 
were  indefatigably  faithful  to  his  memory.  The  son  of  the  very  Richter  who 
had  so  persecuted  him,  became  their  fellow-labourer  in  the  dissemination  of  his 
writings.  Throughout  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Germans, 
Swiss,  Hollanders,  Englishmen,  were  busy  with  translations,  commentaries,  or 
original  works,  in  exposition  and  development  of  his  philosophy.  Gichtel  pub- 
lished the  first  complete  edition  of  his  writings  in  1682,  and  afterwards  went  off 
on  his  own  account  into  one  of  tlie  craziest  phases  of  mysticism.  Orthodox 
Lutheranism  long  continued  to  assail  the  doctrine,  as  it  had  assailed  tlie  man. 
But  the  geni.al  piety  of  Spener,  and  tlie  large  charity  of  Arnold — tiiat  generous 
advocate  of  ecclesiastical  outcasts— did  justice  to  the  devout  earnestness  of  the 


124         Theosopliy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 


theosophist.  In  France,  St.  Martin  became  at  once  a  translator  and  a  disciple. 
His  best  representative  in  England  is  William  Law.  Tiiat  nonjuring  clergy- 
man was  elevated  and  liberalised  by  his  intercourse  with  the  mind  of  the 
German  mystic,  and  well  did  he  repay  the  debt.  1-aw  may  be  said  to  have 
introduced  Ijehmen  to  the  English  public,  both  by  his  services  as  a  translator, 
and  by  oiiginal  writings  in  advocacy  of  his  leading  principles.  As  m:g.-;t  be 
expected,  the  educated  and  more  practical  Englishman  frequently  expresses  the 
thoughts  of  the  Teuton  with  nnich  more  force  and  clearness  than  their  origi- 
nator could  command.  Several  other  Englishmen,  then  and  subsequently, 
speculated  in  the  same  track.  But  they  met  with  small  encouragement,  and 
their  names  are  all  but  forgotten.  Here  and  there  some  of  their  books  are  to 
be  found  among  literary  curiosities,  whose  rarity  is  their  only  value.  If  any 
would  make  acquaintance  with  Rehmen's  theology,  vmvexed  by  the  difficulties 
of  his  language  or  the  complexity  in  which  he  involves  his  system,  let  them  read 
Law.  The  practical  aspect  of  Behmen's  doctrines  concerning  the  fall  and 
redemption  are  well  exhibited  in  his  lucid  and  searching  treatise  entitled  'f/ie 
Spirit  of  Prayer ;  or,  The  Soul  rising  out  of  the  Vanity  of  Time  into  the 
liichcs  of  Eternity. 

In  Germany  Behmen  became  the  great  mystagogue  of  the  Romantic  school. 
Novalis  and  'Fieck  are  ardent  in  their  admiration  ;  but  they  are  cold  to  Frederick 
Schlegel.  This  unconscious  caricature  of  Romanticism  (always  in  some  frantic 
extreme  or  other)  places  Behmen  above  Luther  and  beside  Dante.  A  plain 
translation  of  the  Bible,  like  that  of  I^uther,  he  could  scarcely  account  a  benefit. 
Hut  a  symbolical  interpretation,  like  that  of  Behmen,  was  a  Promethean  gift. 
Christian  art  was  defective,  he  thought,  because  it  wanted  a  mythology.  In 
Behmen's  theosophy  he  saw  that  want  supplied.  Alas,  that  Thorwaldsen  did 
not  execute  a  statue  of  the  Astringent  Quality — that  Cornelius  did  not  paint  the 
Fiery— that  Tieck  has  never  sung  the  legend  of  tlie  Mysterium  Magnum — and 
tliat  a  Gallery  of  the  Seven  Mothers  should  be  still  the  desideratum  of  Europe  ! 
Hegel  condescends  to  throw  to  Behmen  some  words  of  patronising  praise,  as  a 
distant  harbinger  of  his  own  philosophical  Messiahship.  Carriere  declares  that 
Schelliiig  borrowed  many  choice  morsels  from  his  terminology  without  acknow- 
ledgment. Franz  Baader  published  a  course  of  lectures  on  Behmen — revived 
and  adapted  him  to  modern  thought,  and  developed  a  theosophy,  among  the 
most  conspicuous  of  recent  times,  altogether  upon  Behmen's  model.  Baader 
assures  us  that  had  Schelling  thought  less  of  Spinosa  and  more  deeply  studied 
Behmen,  his  philosophy  would  have  been  far  more  rich  in  valuable  result  than 
we  now  find  it.  Carriere,  pp.  721-725. — HsgeVs  Encyclopadie,  Vorr.  z.zxveiten 
Aufl.  p.  22.    Hoffman's  Franz  Baader  ivi  Verhdltiiissc  zu  Spinosa,  &c.  p.  23. 

The  judgment  of  Henry  More  concerning  Behmen  is  discriminating  and  im- 
partial. '  But  as  for  Jacob  Behmen  I  do  not  see  but  that  he  holds  firm  the 
fundamentals  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  tl  at  his  mind  was  devoutly  united 
to  the  Head  of  the  Church,  the  crucified  Jesus,  to  whom  he  breathed  out  this 
short  ejaculation  with  much  fervency  of  spirit  upon  his  death-bed, — Thou  cruci- 
fied Lord  Jesus,  have  mercy  on  me,  and  take  me  into  thy  kingdom.    ..." 

'  But  the  case  seems  to  me  to  stand  thus  : — There  being  two  main  ways 
whereby  our  mind  is  won  off  to  assent  to  things  :  viz.,  the  guidance  of  reason, 
or  the  strength  and  vigour  of  fancy  r  nnd  according  to  the  complexion  or  con- 
stitution of  tiie  body,  we  being  led  by  this  faculty  rather  than  by  that,  suppose, 
by  the  strength  or  fulness  of  fancy  rather  than  the  closeness  of  reason  (neither 
of  whicli  faculties  are  so  sure  guides  that  we  never  miscarry  under  their  conduct ; 
insomuch  that  all  men,  even  the  very  best  of  them  that  light  upon  truth,  are  to 
be  deemed  rather  fortunate  than  wise),  Jacob  Behmen,  I  conceive,  is  to  be 
reckoned  in  the  number  of  those  whose  imaginative  faculty  has  the  pre-eminence 


c.  8]        Theosophy  in  the  Agi  of  the  Reformation.        1:25 

above  the  rational  ;  and  though  he  was  an  holy  and  good  man,  his  natm-al 
complexion,  notwithstanding,  was  not  destroyed,  but  retained  its  property  still ; 
and  therefore  his  imagination  being  very  busy  about  divine  things,  he  could  not 
without  a  miracle  fail  of  becoming  an  enthusiast,  and  of  receiving  divine  truths 
upon  the  account  of  the  strength  and  vigour  of  his  fancy  :  which  being  so  well 
qualified  with  holiness  and  sanctity,  proved  not  unsuccessful  in  sundry  appre- 
hensions, but  in  others  it  fared  with  him  after  the  manner  of  men,  the  sagacity 
of  his  imagination  failing  him,  as  well  as  the  anxiety  of  reason  does  others  of 
like  integrity  witli  himself. 

'  Which  things  I  think  very  worthy  of  noting,  that  no  man's  writings  may  be 
a  snare  to  any  one's  mind  ;  that  none  may  be  puzzled  in  making  that  true  which 
of  itself  is  certainly  false  ;  nor  yet  contemn  tiie  hearty  and  powerful  exhorta- 
tions of  a  zealous  soul  to  the  indispensable  duties  of  a  Christian,  by  any  sup- 
posed deviations  from  the  truth  in  speculations  that  are  not  so  material  nor 
indispensable.  Nay,  though  something  should  fall  from  him  in  an  enthusiastic 
hurricane  that  seems  neitlier  suitable  to  what  he  writes  elsewhere,  nor  to  some 
grand  theory  that  all  men  in  their  wits  hitherto  have  allowed  for  truth,  yet  it 
were  to  be  imputed  rather  to  that  pardonable  disease  that  his  natural  com- 
plexion is  obnoxious  to,  than  to  any  diabolical  design  in  the  writer  ;  which  rash 
and  unchristian  reproach  is  as  far  from  the  truth,  if  not  further,  as  I  conceive, 
than  the  credulity  of  those  that  think  him  in  everything  infallibly  inspired.' — 
Mastix,  his  Letter  to  a  private  Friend,  appended  to  the  Enthtisiasinus  Triuin- 
p/iatus,&c.,  p.  294  (1656). 

It  will  be  sufficient  to  enumerate  the  mere  names  of  several  minor  mystics, 
whose  fancies  are  of  little  moment  in  the  history  of  mystical  doctrine.  In  the 
sixteenth  century  appeared  David  Joris,  a  Dutchman,  who  had  almost  fatal 
ecstasies  and  visions,  and  wrote  and  exhorted  men,  in  mystical  language,  to 
purity  and  self-abandonment.  Also  Postel,  a  Frenchman,  more  mad  than  the 
former,  who  believed  in  a  female  devotee,  named  Johanna,  as  the  second  Eve, 
through  whom  humanity  was  to  be  regenerated.  Guthmann,  Lautensack,  and 
Conrad  Sperber,  were  theosophists  who  mingled,  in  hopeless  confusion,  reli- 
gious doctrine  and  alchemic  process,  physics  and  scripture,  tradition,  vision, 
fancy,  fact.  During  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  Brunswick  was 
agitated  by  one  Engelbrecht,  a  sickly  hypochondriacal  weaver,  who  imagined 
himself  translated  to  heaven  and  hell,  and  commissioned  to  expound  and 
preach  incessantly.  During  the  latter  part  of  the  same  century,  the  madman 
Kuhlmann  roved  and  raved  about  Europe,  summoning  sovereigns  to  his  bar  : 
Conrad  Dippel  improvised  a  medley  of  Paracelsus,  Schwenkfcid,  and  Behmen  ; 
and  John  George  Gichtel,  a  fanatical  Quietist,  bathed  his  soul  in  imaginary 
flames,  believed  himself  destined  to  illumine  all  mankind,  founded  the  sect  of 
the  Angel-Brethren,  and  seems  to  have  ended  in  sheer  madness.  An  account 
of  these  and  other  mystics,  even  less  notable,  will  be  found  in  Arnold's  Kirclien- 
und-Ketzergeschichte,  Th.  iii. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

O  sola,  mica,  rama  lamahi, 
Volase,  cala,  maja,  mira,  salame, 
Viemisa  niolasola,  Rama,  Afasala. 
Mirabel,  Zorabeli,  Assaja  ! 

Citation  for  all  Spirits,  from  the  Black  Raven 

A  STRICT  regard  for  historical  accuracy  compels  me  to 
state  that  the  following  conversation  took  place  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  not  in  the  library.  By  such  an  arrange- 
ment, that  bright  feminine  presence  was  secured  which,  accord- 
ing to  Gower,  deprived  mysticism  itself  of  half  its  obscurity. 

'Did  Jacob  Behmen  frighten  you  away?'  asked  Willoughby 
of  Mrs.  Atherton,  somewhat  remorsefully.  '  I  think  Atherton 
and  Gower  will  bear  me  out  in  saying  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
render  the  worthy  shoemaker  entertaining.' 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Mr.  Gower  was  telling  us  just  before  you 
came  in,  that  he  found  him,  from  your  account,  a  much  more 
imaginative  personage  than  he  had  supposed — quite  a  poetical 
philosopher. 

Gower.  Behmen  holds  a  poet's  doctrine,  surely,  when  he 
represents  all  nature  as  struggling  towards  an  ideal, — striving 
to  bring  forth  now,  as  it  once  did — ere  Lucifer  had  fallen, — 
longing  and  labouring,  in  fellowship  with  our  human  aspiration, 

Willoughby.  Such  a  notion  must  tend  to  remove  from  the 
mind  that  painful  sense  we  sometimes  have  of  the  indifference 
of  nature  to  our  thoughts  and  doings. 

Athkrton.  To  remove  that  feeling  from  the  imagination,  at 
least. 

Willoughby.  And  that  is  enough  ;  for  only  in  imagination 
can  it  have  existence.     Man  is  so  much  greater  than  nature. 


c.  9.]  Nature  and  Jier  Ideal.  1 27 


GowER.  It  does,  indeed,  make  all  the  difterence  to  poets  and 
artists,  whether  they  read  sympathy  or  apathy  in  the  face  of 
creation.  Think  of  the  various  forms  and  agencies  of  nature — 
of  the  swart  Cyclopean  forces  under  the  earth — of  the  deftly- 
woven  threadwork  of  the  tissues — of  vapour-pageantries,  and 
cloud-cupolas,  and  fairy  curls  of  smoke — of  the  changeful  polity 
of  the  seasons,  advancing  and  disgracing  frost  or  sunshine — of 
the  waves  lashing  at  the  land,  and  the  land  growing  into  the 
waves, — of  all  these  ministries  as  working,  like  thoughtful  man, 
toward  a  divine  standard;  as  rejoicing,  in  their  measure,  througli 
every  descending  range  of  being,  under  the  restoring  hand  of 
the  Divine  Artificer,  and  panting  to  recover  the  order  and  the 
beauty  of  the  Paradise  which  shines  above, — of  the  Eden  which 
once  blossomed  here  below.  Think  of  the  earth,  resigning 
herself  each  winter  to  her  space  of  sleep,  saying  inwardly,  '  I 
have  wrought  anotlier  year  to  bring  the  oftspring  of  my  breast 
nearer  to  the  heavenly  pattern  hidden  in  my  heart.  I  rest, 
another  circuit  nearer  to  the  final  consummation.'  Then  there 
is  that  upper  Paradise — substantial,  yet  ethereal, — as  full  of 
beauty,  for  finer  senses,  as  earth's  fairest  spots  for  more  gross, 
without  aught  that  is  hurtful  or  discordant.  Fill  up  Behmen's 
outline.  Picture  the  heavenly  hills  and  valleys,  whispering  one 
to  another  in  odorous  airs, — a  converse  only  broken  sweetly, 
from  time  to  time,  by  the  floating  tones  of  some  distant  angel- 
psalm,  as  the  quiet  of  a  lake  by  a  gliding  swan.  There  run 
rivers  of  life — the  jubilant  souls  of  the  meditative  glens  through 
which  they  wend.  There  are  what  seem  birds,  gorgeous  as 
sunset  clouds,  and  less  earthly, — animal  forms,  graceful  as  the 
antelope,  leaping  among  crags  more  lustrous  than  diamond, 
— creatures  mightier  than  leviathan;  and  mild-eyed  as  the  dove 
couching  among  immortal  flowers,  or  bathing  in  the  crystal 
sea.  The  very  dust  is  dazzling  and  priceless,  intersown  with 
the  sapphire,  the  sardonyx,  the  emerald  of  heaven;  and  all  the 


128         Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [r.  vni. 

ground  and  pavement  of  that  world  branching  with  veins  as  of 
gold  and  silver,  an  arborescent  glory,  instinct  with  mysterious 
life. 

WiLLOUGHDY.  Thank  you,  Gower. 

GowER.  Thank  you,  Willoughby.  You  are  my  informant. 
I  never  read  a  line  of  Behmen  on  my  own  account,  and,  what 
is  more,  never  will. 

Kate.  Helen  and  I  want  you  very  much  to  tell  us  something 
about  the  Rosicrucians. 

Atherton.  You  have  read  Zanoiii 

Kate.  And  we  are  all  the  more  curious  in  consequence. 
How  much  of  such  a  story  may  I  think  true  ? 

Atherton.  As  an  ideal  portraiture  of  that  ambition  which 
seeks  lordship  within  the  marches  of  the  unseen  world,  I  think 
Zanoni  perfect. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  The  Rosicrucians  pretended,  did  they  not, 
that  they  could  prolong  life  indefinitely, — laid  claim  to  all  sorts 
of  wonderful  power  and  knowledge  ?  Have  you  not  once  or 
twice  met  with  a  person,  or  heard  of  one,  who  would  certainly 
have  been  suspected  of  being  a  Rosicrucian  by  superstitious 
people?  I  mean,  without  any  pretence  on  his  part,  merely  from 
a  singular  appearance,  or  a  mysterious  manner,  or  uncommon 
cleverness. 

Atherton.  Oh,  yes ;  such  men  would  keep  up  the  Rosicru- 
cian tradition  bravely  among  the  common  folk. 

Willoughby.  And  among  great  folk,  too,  if  they  took  the 
pains. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  I  was  thinking  of  Colonel  Napier's  descrip- 
tion of  George  Borrow,  which  we  were  reading  the  otlier  day. 
He  pictures  him  youthful  in  figure,  yet  with  snow-white  hair ; 
inscrutable,  therefore,  as  to  age,  as  the  Wandering  Jew ;  he  has 
deep-black  mesmeric  eyes,  terrible  to  dogs  and  Portuguese  ;  he 
is  silent  about  himself  to  the  most  tantalizing  height  of  mystery 


eg]  Romance  and  Reality.  12g 

no  man  knowing  his  whence  or  whither  ;  he  is  master  of  in- 
formation astoundingly  various,  speaks  with  fluency  Enghsh, 
French,  German,  Spanish,  Greek,  Hindee,  Moultanee,  the  gipsy 
tongue,  and  more  beside,  for  aught  I  know.  So  equipped, 
within  and  without,  he  might  have  set  up  for  a  Zanoni  ahiiost 
anywhere,  and  succeeded  to  admiration. 

Atherton.  How  small  the  charlatans  look  beside  such  a 
specimen  of  true  manhood.  But  where  shall  we  find  the  dis- 
tance wider  between  the  ideal  and  the  actual  than  in  this  very 
province  of  supernatural  pretension  ?  What  a  gulf  between  the 
high  personage  our  romance  imagines  and  that  roving,  dare- 
devil buccaneer  of  science,  or  that  shuffling  quacksalver  which 
our  matter-of-fact  research  discovers.  Don't  you  agree  with 
me,  Willoughby  ? 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Altogether.  Only  compare  the  two  sets  of 
figures — what  we  fancy,  and  what  we  find.  On  the  one  side 
you  picture  to  yourself  a  man  Platonically  elevated  above  the 
grossness  and  entanglement  of  human  passions,  disdaining  earth, 
dauntlessly  out-staring  the  baleful  eyes  of  that  nameless  horror — 
the  Dweller  on  the  Threshold;  commanding  the  prescience  and 
the  power  of  mightiest  spirits  ;  and  visited,  like  Shelley's  Witch 
of  Atlas,  as  he  reads  the  scrolls  of  some  Saturnian  Archimage, 
by  universal  Pan,  who  comes  with  homage  '  out  of  his  everlast- 
ing lair,' — 

'  Where  the  quick  heart  of  the  great  world  doth  pant.' 

This  is  the  theurgist,  as  imagination  paints  him.  Now  turn,  on 
the  other  side,  to  the  actual  gallery  of  theosophic  and  theurgic 
worthies,  as  history  reveals  them.  Baptista  Porta  dwells  in  a 
house  which  is  the  triumph  of  legerdemain, — the  palace  of  Puck, 
the  most  intricate  nest  of  traps,  surprises,  optical  delusions, 
grotesque  trav  sformations, — throwing  host  and  guests  into  par- 
oxysms of  laughter  or  of  fear.  You  see  Cornelius  Agrippa,  in 
threadbare  bravery,  with  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  and  every 

VOL.  II.  K 


130        Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,    [b.  vm. 

expression  by  turns  upon  his  brow,  save  that  of  the  Platonic 
serenity.  Paracelsus  swears  worse  than  my  uncle  Toby's  com- 
rades in  Flander?,  and  raves  about  his  Homunculus.  But  from 
such  men  we  cannot  withhold  sympathy,  respect,  even  a  certain 
admiration.  In  that  eighteenth  century,  behold  that  grand  mag- 
net for  all  the  loose  and  dupable  social  particles  in  every  class 
and  country — the  soi-disant  Count  Cagliostro,  with  his  Seraphina, 
his  Egyptian  Lodge,  his  elixirs  and  red  powder,  his  magical 
caraffes,  his  phosphorous  glories,  his  Pentagon  and  Columbs,  his 
Seven  Planetary  Spirits,  his  Helios,  Mene,  Tetragrammaton. 
In  that  age  of  professed  Illuminism,  in  the  times  of  Voltaire 
and  Diderot,  when  universal  Ajfkidnmg  was  to  banish  every 
mediaeval  phantasm,  you  see  Father  Gassner,  with  his  miracu- 
lous cures,  followed  by  crowds  through  Swabia  and  Bavaria ; — 
Mesmer  attracting  Paris  and  Vienna  to  his  darkened  rooms  and 
hidden  music,  to  be  awe-stricken  by  the  cataleptic  horrors  there 
achieved  ; — the  Count  St.  Germain  declaring  himself  three  hun- 
dred years  old,  and  professing  the  occult  science  of  diamond- 
manufacturing  Brahmins  ; — the  coffee-house  keeper,  Schropfer, 
deluding  Leipsic  and  Frankfort  with  his  pretended  theurgic 
art; — and  St.  Maurice,  swindling  the  sceptical  wits  and  rones 
who  flutter  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Mesdames  Du  Maine  and 
De  Tencin,  pretending  to  open  converse  for  them  with  sylphs 
and  Salamanders,  invoking  the  genius  Alael,  and  finally  subsid- 
ing into  the  Bastille.  Such  are  some  among  the  actual  caricatures 
of  the  artistic  conception  embodied  in  the  character  of  Zanoni. 

Atherton.  Truly  a  bad  symptom  of  the  general  disease, 
when  men  grow  unable  to  see  that  the  highest  dignity  lies  close 
at  hand. 

WiLLouGHBY.  As  though  man  could  never  exhibit  magna- 
nimity unless  in  some  thrilling  dramatic  '  situation.' 

GowER.  Or  could  not  believe  in  the  unseen  world  save  by 
help  of  necromancers,  miracle-mongers,  and  clairvoyantes* 


c.  9.]  The  Rosicrucians.  131 

Atherton.  The  ancient  saying  abides  true, — He  that  ruleth 
his  own  spirit  is  greater  than  he  that  taketh  a  city, — greater 
than  even  he  who  should  carry  the  cloud-capital  of  the  whole 
world  of  spirits,  pull  down  its  meteor-flag,  and  make  all  the 
weird  garrison  his  thralls.  I  think,  if  I  were  a  preacher,  I 
should  some  day  take  up  the  phase  of  man's  mental  history  we 
have  now  reviewed  as  a  practical  exposition  of  Christ's  words — 
'  Nevertheless,  in  this  rejoice  not  that  the  spirits  are  subject 
unto  you,  but  rather  that  your  names  are  written  in  heaven.' 

Kate.  I  should  like  to  know,  after  all,  precisely  who  and 
what  these  Rosicrucians  Avere.  When  did  they  make  their  first 
appearance  ? 

WiLLOUGHBY.  They  were  originally  neither  more  nor  less 
than  the  '  Mrs.  Harris'  of  a  Lutheran  pastor. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Mr.  Willoughby  ! 

Atherton.  Fact,  Lily.  Willoughby  never  said  anything 
truer. 

Willoughby.  Allow  me  to  tell  )ou  the  story. — About  the 
year  16 10,  there  appeared  anonymously  a  little  book,  which 
excited  great  sensation  throughout  Germany.  It  was  entitled. 
The  Discovery  of  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Honourable  Order  of  the 
Rosy  Cross,  and  dedicated  to  all  the  scholars  and  magnates  of 
Europe.* 

It  commenced  with  an  imaginary  dialogue  between  the  Seven 
Sages  of  Greece,  and  other  worthies  of  antiquity,  on  the  best 
method  of  accomplishing  a  general  reform  in  those  evil  times. 

'  See,  concerning  the  history  of  this  The  derivation  of  the  name  Rosi- 

book,ancl  its  author,  Valentine  Andrea,  crucian  from  ivs  and  cn/.\\  rather  tlian 

].  G.  BuUs,  Ucber  den  Urspnii/g  mid  rosa  and    crux,    to    which    Bruokcr 

die  Vornchmstcii  Schiksale  der  Orden  alludes   {Hist.   Pliil.   Per.  in.   Pars  i. 

der    Rosenkreuzer    tind    Frcyiuaioxr  lib.  3,  cap.  3),  is  untenable.   Byriglits. 

(Gottingen,   1804),  chapp.   iii.  and  iv.  the   word,    if   from    rosa,   should    no 

Arnold   gives   a  full   account  of   the  doubt  be    Rosacrucian ;    but   such   a 

controversy,  and  extracts,  whicli  ap-  malformation,  by  no  means   uncom- 

pear  to  indicate  very  fairly  the  clia-  nion,   cannot   outweigh    the    reasons 

racter    of    the     Fama    Fraternitatis,  adduced  on  behalf  of  the  generally- 

Kirchen-und-Kctzergeschichtc,  Th.  ii.  recci\cd  etymology.     .See  Buhle,  pp, 

Buch  xvii.  cap.  18.  174,  iv:c. 


132         ThcosopJiy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,    [n.  vm. 


The  suggestion  of  Seneca  is  adopted,  as  most  feasible,  namely, 
a  secret  confederacy  of  wise  philanthropists,  who  shall  labour 
everywhere  in  unison  for  this  desirable  end.  The  book  then 
announces  the  actual  existence  of  such  an  association.  One 
Christian  Rosenkreuz,  whose  travels  in  the  East  had  enriched 
him  with  the  highest  treasures  of  occult  lore,  is  said  to  liave 
communicated  his  wisdom,  under  a  vow  of  secresy,  to  eight 
disciples,  for  whom  he  erected  a  mysterious  dwelling-place 
called  The  Temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  It  is  stated  further, 
that  this  long-hidden  edifice  had  been  at  last  discovered,  and 
within  it  the  body  of  Rosenkreuz,  untouched  by  corruption, 
though,  since  his  death,  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  had 
passed  away.  The  surviving  disciples  of  the  institute  call  on 
the  learned  and  devout,  who  desire  to  co-operate  in  their 
pro;"ects  of  reform,  to  advertise  their  names.  They  themselves 
indicate  neither  name  nor  place  of  rendezvous.  They  describe 
themselves  as  true  Protestants.  They  expressly  assert  that 
they  contemplate  no  political  movement  in  hos:ility  to  the 
reigning  powers.  Their  sole  aim  is  the  diminution  of  the  fear- 
ful sum  of  human  suffering,  the  spread  of  education,  the 
advancement  of  learning,  science,  universal  enlightenment,  and 
love.  Traditions  and  manuscripts  in  their  possession  have 
given  them  the  power  of  gold-making,  with  other  potent 
secrets ;  but  by  their  wealth  they  set  little  store.  They  have 
arcana^  in  comparison  with  which  the  secret  of  the  alchemist  is 
a  trifle.  But  all  is  subordinate,  with  them,  to  their  one  high 
purpose  of  benefiting  their  fellows  both  in  body  and  soul. 
Mrs.  Atherton.  No  wonder  the  book  made  some  noise, 
WiLLOUGHBV.  I  could  give  you  conclusive  reasons,  if  it 
would  not  tire  you  to  hear  them,  for  the  belief  tliat  this  far- 
famed  book  was  written  by  a  young  Lutheran  divine  named 
Valentine  Andrea.  He  was  one  of  the  very  few  who  under- 
stood the  age,  and  had  the  heart  to  try  and  mend  it.     You  see 


c.  9]  Valet  I  tine  Andrea.  T33 

him,  when  his  college  days  are  over,  starting  on  his  travels — 
his  old  mother  giving  him  her  tearful  '  God  bless  you,'  as  she 
puts  into  his  hand  all  the  treasure  of  her  poverty, — a  rusty  old 
coin,  and  twelve  kreuzer.  From  the  cottage-door  her  gaze 
follows  with  many  a  prayer  the  good  son,  whose  beloved  form 
lessens  along  the  country  road.  Years  after,  he  comes  back, 
bringing  with  him  the  same  old  coin,  and  with  it  several  hun- 
dred gulden.  He  has  seen  the  world,  toiling,  with  (juick 
observant  eye  and  brave  kindly  heart,  through  south  and 
western  Germany,  among  the  Alps,  through  Italy  and  France. 
He  has  been  sometimes  in  clover  as  a  travelling  tutor,  some- 
times he  has  slept  and  fared  hard,  under  vine-hedges,  in  noisy, 
dirty  little  inns,  among  carriers,  packmen,  and  travelling  ap- 
prentices. The  candidate  becomes  pastor,  and  proves  himself 
wise  in  men  as  well  as  books.  A  philanthropist  by  nature,  he 
is  not  one  of  those  dreamers  who  hate  all  that  will  not  aid  their 
one  pet  scheme,  and  cant  about  a  general  brotherhood  which 
exempts  them  from  particular  charity.  Wherever  the  church, 
the  school,  the  institute  of  charity  have  fallen  into  ruin  or  dis- 
order by  stress  of  war,  by  fraud,  or  selfish  neglect,  there  the 
indefatigable  Andrea  appears  to  restore  them.  He  devises  new 
plans  of  benevolence, —  appealing,  persuading,  rebuking.  He 
endures  the  petulence  of  disturbed  indolence,  the  persecution 
of  exposed  abuse  ;  bearing  with,  and  winning  over,  all  sorts  01 
hopeless  crabljed  people,  thrusting  men's  hands  into  their 
l)ockets,  they  know  not  how.  He  is  an  arch  bore  in  the  eyes  ol 
miserly  burgomasters  and  slumberous  brother  clergy — a  very 
patron-saint  for  the  needy  aqd  distressed,  the  orphan  and  the 
widow.  To  this  robust  practical  benevolence  was  added  a 
genial  humour,  not  uncommon  in  minds  of  strength  like  his. 
and  a  certain  trenchant  skill  in  satirical  delineation  which  ren- 
ders sonie  of  his  writings  among  the  most  serviceable  to  the 
historian  of  tliose  times. 


1 34        Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vm. 

GowER.  Oh,  how  I  love  that  man  ! 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Well,  this  Andrea  writes  the  Discovery  of  the 
Rosicrucian  Broiherhood,  a  jeii-d'' esprit  with  a  serious  purpose, 
just  as  an  experiment  to  see  whether  something  cannot  be  done 
by  combined  effort  to  remedy  the  defect  and  abuses — social, 
educational,  and  religious,  so  lamented  by  all  good  men.  He 
thought  there  were  many  Andreas  scattered  throughout  Europe 
— how  powerful  would  be  their  united  systematic  action  ! 

Kate.  But  why  mix  up  with  his  proposal  all  this  idle 
fabling  about  Rosenkreuz  and  his  fraternity.-* 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  for  that  spice  of  romance,  this  notion  of 
his  could  never  have  done  more  than  chip  the  shell  or  sprawl 
helpless  in  the  nest.  The  promise  of  supernatural  powers 
awakened  universal  attention — fledged,  and  gave  it  strength  to 
fly  through  Europe. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  But  the  hoax  could  not  last  long,  and 
would,  after  all,  encourage  those  idle  superstitions  which  were 
among  the  most  mischievous  of  the  errors  he  was  trying  to  put 
down. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  indeed  it  proved.  But  his  expectation 
was  otherwise.  He  hoped  that  the  few  nobler  minds  whom  he 
desired  to  organize  would  see  through  the  veil  of  fiction  in 
which  he  had  invested  his  proposal ;  that  he  might  communi- 
cate personally  with  some  such,  if  they  should  appear ;  or  that 
his  book  might  lead  them  to  form  among  themselves  a  practical 
philanthropic  confederacy,  answering  to  the  serious  purpose  he 
had  embodied  in  his  fiction.  Let  the  empty  charlatan  and  the 
ignoble  gold-seeker  be  fooled  to  the  top  of  their  bent,  their 
blank  disappointment  would  be  an  excellent  jest;  only  let  some 
few,  to  whom  humanity  was  more  dear  than  bullion,  be  stimu- 
lated to  a  new  enterprise. 

Gower.  The  scheme  was  certain,  at  any  rate,  to  procure  him 
some  amusement. 


e.g.]  TJie  consequence  of  Andreas  scheme.  135 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Many  a  laugh,  you  may  be  sure,  he  enjoyed 
in  his  parsonage  with  his  few  friends  who  were  in  the  secret; 
when  they  found  their  fable  everywhere  swallowed  greedily  as 
unquestionable  fact.     On  all  sides  they  heard  of  search  insti- 
tuted to  discover   the  Temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost.     Printed 
letters  appear  continually,  addressed  to  the  imaginary  brother- 
hood, giving  generally  the  initials  of  the  candidate,  where  the 
invisibles  might  hear  of  him,  stating  his  motives  and  qualifica- 
tions for  entrance  into  their  number,  and  sometimes  furnishing 
samples  of  his  cabbalistic  acquirements.    Still,  no  answer.    Not 
a  trace  of  the  Temple.     Profound  darkness  and  silence,  after 
the  brilliant  flash  which  had  awakened  so  many  hopes.     Soon 
the  mirth  grew  serious.     Andrea  saw  with  concern  that  shrewd 
heads  of  the  wrong  sort  began  to  scent  his  artifice,  while  quacks 
reaped  a  rogue's  harvest  from  it.     The  reality  was  ridiculed  as 
fiction,  and  the  fiction  hailed  as  reality.    Society  was  full  of  the 
rotten  combustible  matter  which  his  spark  had  kindled  into  a 
conflagration  he  could  not  hope  to  stay.    A  cloud  of  books  and 
pamphlets  issued  from  the  press,  for  and  against  the  fraternity, 
whose  actual  house  lay  beneath  the  Doctor's  hat  of  Valentine 
Andrea.      Medical  practitioners  of  the  old  school,   who  de- 
nounced the  spagiric  method,  and  to  whom  the  name  of  Para- 
celsus was  an  abomination,  ridiculed  the  Rosicrucian  secrets, 
and  scofted  at  their  offer  of  gratuitous  cures.    Orthodox  divines, 
like  Libavius,  swinging  a  heavy  club,  cruelly  demolished  the 
little  book,— which,  of  a  truth,  was  not  fit  to  sustain  rough 
handling.     They  called  down  fire  from  heaven  on  its  unknown 
authors^and  declared  that  their  rosa  should  be  rota—\\\t\x  rose, 
the  wheel.     Meanwhile  a  number  of  enthusiasts  became  volun- 
teer expositors  of  the  principle  and  aim  of  this  undiscoverable 
brotherhood.     Andrea  saw  his  scheme  look  as  ridiculous  in 
the  hands  of  its  credulous  friends  as  it  seemed  odious  in  those 
of  its  enemies.     A  swarm  of  impostors  pretended  to  belong  to 


136        Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Rcformatioji.       [n.  vm. 

the  Fraternity,  and  found  a  readier  sale  than  ever  for  their 
nostrums.  Andrea  dared  not  reveal  himself.  All  he  could  do 
was  to  write  book  after  book  to  expose  the  folly  of  those  whom 
his  handiwork  had  so  befooled,  and  still  to  labour  on,  by  pen 
and  speech,  in  earnest  aid  of  that  reform  which  his  unhappy 
stratagem  had  less  helped  than  hindered. 

Mrs.  Atherton,  And  was  no  society  ever  actually  formed? 

WiLLOUGHBV.  I  believe  not ;  nothing,  at  least,  answering  in 
any  way  to  Andrea's  design.  Confederacies  of  pretenders 
appear  to  have  been  organized  in  various  places;  but  Descartes 
says  he  sought  in  vain  for  a  Rosicrucian  lodge  in  Germany. 
The  name  Rosicrucian  became  by  degrees  a  generic  term,  em- 
bracing every  species  of  occult  pretension. — arcana,  elixirs,  the 
philosophers  stone,  theurgic  ritual,  symbols,  initiations.  In 
general  usage  the  term  is  associated  more  especially  with  that 
branch  of  the  secret  art  which  has  to  do  with  the  creatures  of 
the  elements. 

Atherton.  And  from  this  deposit  of  current  mystical  tra- 
dition sprang,  in  great  measure,  the  Freemasonry  and  Rosi- 
crucianism  of  the  eighteenth  century, — that  golden  age  of 
secret  societies.  Then  flourished  associations  of  every  imagin- 
able kind,  suited  to  every  taste.  The  gourmand  might  be  sure 
of  a  good  dinner  in  one;  the  alchemist  might  hope  to  catch 
his  secret  in  a  second  ;  the  place-hunter  might  strengthen  his 
interest  in  the  brotherhood  of  a  third  ;  and,  in  all,  the  curious 
and  the  credulous  might  be  fleeced  to  their  hearts'  content. 
Some  lodges  belonged  to  Protestant  societies,  others  were  the 
implements  of  the  Jesuits.  Some  were  aristocratic,  like  the 
Strict  Observance;  others  democratic,  seeking  in  vain  to 
escape  an  Argus-eyed  police.  Some — like  the  Illuminati  under 
Weishaupt,  Knigge,  and  Von  Zwackh,  numbering  (among 
many  knaves)  not  a  it^^  names  of  rank,  probity,  and  learning 
— were  the  professed  enemies  of  mysticism  and  superstition  • 


e.g.]  A  practical  Rosicrucian.  137 

Others  existed  only  for  the  profitable  juggle  of  incantations  and 
fortune-telling.  The  lodges  contended  with  each  other  and 
among  themselves ;  divided  and  subdivided  ;  modified  and 
remodified  their  constitutions  ;  blended  and  dispersed  ;  till,  at 
last,  we  almost  cease  to  hear  of  them.  The  best  perished  at 
the  hands  of  the  Jesuits,  the  worst  at  the  hands  of  the  police. 

WiLLouGHBV.  At  Vienna,  the  Rosicrucians  and  Freemasons 
were  at  one  time  so  much  the  rage  that  a  modification  of  the 
mason's  apron  became  a  fashionable  part  of  female  dress, 
and  chatelaines  were  made  of  miniature  hammers,  circles,  and 
plumblines. 

Kate.  Very  pretty,  some  of  them,  I  dare  say. 

Atherton.  Do  you  remember,  Gower,  that  large  old  house 
we  saw  at  Vienna,  called  the  Stift  ? 

Gower.  Perfectly,  and  the  Stift-gasse,  too,  leading  to  it,  for 
there  I  got  wet  through. 

Atherton.  That  nuilding  is  the  relic  of  a  charity  founded 
by  a  professed  Rosicrucian.  He  took  the  name  of  Chaos  (after 
their  fashion)— every  brother  changing  his  name  for  some  such 
title  as  Sol,  Aureus,  Mercurius,  and  so  on,  according  to  his 
taste.  He  came  to  Vienna  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
somehow,  whether  by  his  alchemy  or  not  I  cannot  say,  acquired 
both  fortune  and  nobility.  Ferdinand  HI.  made  him  Hof- 
kammerath,  and  prefixed  a  Von  to  the  Chaos.  This  good  man 
founded  an  institution  for  orphans,  who  were  once  educated  in 
that  house,  since  converted  into  a  military  academy,  and  bear- 
ing still,  in  its  name  and  neighbourhood,  traces  of  the  original 
endowment. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Andrea  would  have  taken  some  comfort 
could  he  but  have  seen  at  least  that  practical  fruit  of  his  Rosi- 
crucian whim.  How  his  heart  would  have  rejoiced  to  hear  the 
hum  of  the  orphan  school-room,  and  to  see  their  smoking 
pkutcrs  ! 


1 53        TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,     [b.  vih. 

Kate.  My  curiosity  is  not  yet  satisfied.  I  should  like  to 
know  something  more  about  those  most  poetical  beings,  the 
creatures  of  the  elements, — Sylph,  Undine,  and  Co. 

Atherton.  On  this  subject,  Kate,  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
satisfy  you.  I  can  conduct  you  at  once  to  the  fountain-head. 
I  will  read  you  the  process  enjoined  in  the  Comte  de  Gabalis 
for  attaining  to  converse  with  some  of  these  fanciful  creations. 
{Taking  dozvn  a  Utile  book.)     Here  is  the  passage."     [Reads.) 

'  If  we  wish  to  recover  our  empire  over  the  salamanders,  we 
must  purify  and  exalt  the  element  of  fire  we  have  within  us, 
and  restore  the  tone  of  this  chord  which  desuetude  has  so  re- 
laxed. We  have  only  to  concentrate  the  fire  of  the  world,  by 
concave  mirrors,  in  a  globe  of  glass.  This  is  the  process  all 
the  ancients  have  religiously  kept  secret ;  it  was  revealed  by 
the  divine  Theophrastus.  In  such  a  globe  is  formed  a  solar 
powder,  and  this,  self-purified  from  the  admixture  of  other 
elements,  and  prepared  according  to  the  rules  of  art,  acquires, 
in  a  very  short  time,  a  sovereign  virtue  for  the  exaltation  of 
the  fire  within  us,  and  renders  us,  so  to  speak,  of  an  igneous 
nature.  Henceforth  the  inhabitants  of  the  fiery  sphere  become 
our  inferiors.  Delighted  to  find  our  reciprocal  harmony 
restored,  and  to  see  us  drawing  near  to  them,  they  feel  for  us 
all  the  friendship  they  have  for  their  own  species,  all  the  respect 
they  owe  to  the  image  and  vicegerent  of  their  Creator,  and  pay 
us  every  attention  that  can   be  prompted  by  the    desire  of 

*  Le  Comte  de  Gabalis,  on  Entre-  demons  will  not  dare  to  approach  the 

Hens  stir  les  Sciences  Secretes  (Metz,  place  where  you  are ;  your  voice  will 

an  cinq,  republicain),  pp.  53-56.  make  them  tremble  in  the  depths  of 

The  following  passage  is  a  sample  the  abyss,  and  all  the  invisible  popu- 

of  those  high-sounding  promises  with  lace  of  the  four  elements   will    deem 

which  the  pretenders  to  the  Rosicru-  themselves  happy  to  minister  to  your 

cian  science  allured  the  neophyte :—  pleasures Have  you  the  cou- 

'You  are  about  to  learn   (says  the  rage  and  the  ambition  to  serve  God 

Count  to  the  author)  how  to  command  alone,  and  to  be  lord  over  all  that  is 

all  nature  :    God  alone  will  be  your  not  God  ?    Have  you  understood  what 

master;  the  philosophers  alone  your  it  is  to  be  a  man  ?    Are  you  not  weary 

equals.     The  highest  intelligences  will  of  serving  as  a  slave, — you,  who  were 

be  ambitious  to  obey  your  desire  ;  the  born  for  dominion?' — (p.  27.) 


9] 


Creatures  of  the  Elements,  1 39 


obtaining  at  our  hands  that  immortality  which  does  not 
naturally  belong  to  them.  The  salamanders,  however,  as 
they  are  more  subtile  than  the  creatures  of  the  other  elements, 
live  a  very  long  time,  and  are  therefore  less  urgent  in  seekmg 
from  the  sage  that  affection  which  endows  them  with  im- 
mortality  

'It  is   otherwise   with  the  sylphs,   the    gnomes,    and    the 
nymphs.      As  they  live  a  shorter  time,  they  have  more  induce- 
ment to  court  our  regard,  and  it  is  much  easier  to  become 
intimate  with  them.     You  have  only  to  fill  a  glass  vessel  with 
compressed  air,  with  earth,  or  with  water,  close  it  up,  and  leave 
it   exposed  to  the  sun's  rays  for  a  month.     After  that  tune, 
effect  a  scientific  separation  of  the  elements,  which  you  will 
easily  accomplish,  more  especially  with  earth  or  water.     It  is 
wonderful  to  see  what  a  charm  each  of  the  elements   thus 
purified  possesses  for  attracting  nymphs,  sylphs,  and  gnomes. 
After  taking  the  smallest  particle  of  this  preparation  every  day 
for  a  few  months,  you  see  in  the  air  the  flying  commonwealth 
of  the  sylphs,  the  nymphs  coming  in  crowds  to  the  waterside, 
and  the  guardians  of  hidden  treasure  displaying  their  stores  of 
wealth.     Thus,  without  magical  figures,  without  ceremonies, 
without  barbarous  terms,  an  absolute  power  is  acquired  over 
all  these  people  of  the  elements.     They  require  no  homage 
from   the  philosopher,  for  they  know  well   that   he  is   their 

superior Thus  does  man  recover  his  natural  empire, 

and  become  omnipotent  in  the  region  of  the  elements,  without 
aid  of  dsemon,  without  illicit  art.' 

Of  course  you  have  all  learnt  from  Undine  that  the  crea- 
tures of  the  elements  are  supposed  to  obtain  a  soul,  and  become 
immortal  by  alliance  with  one  of  our  race.  There  is  a  double 
advantage,  too,  for  these  happy  philosophers  may  not  only  raise 
their  nymph  or  sylphide  to  a  share  with  them  in  the  happiness 
of  heaven,  if  they  reach  it,  but  if  the  sage  should  be  so  unfortu- 


1 40         TJicosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation,      [b.  vm, 

nate  as  not  to  be  predestined  to  an  immortality  of  blessedness, 
his  union  with  one  of  these  beings  will  operate  on  himself  con- 
versely,— that  is,  will  render  his  soul  mortal,  and  deliver  him 
from  the  horrors  of  the  endless  second  death.  So  Satan  misses 
his  prey  in  either  sphere. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  never  knew  before  that  these  cabbalists 
were  Calvinists. 

Atherton.  This  touch  of  Jansenism  excites  the  same 
astonishment  in  the  author  of  the  Comic  de  Gahalis.  A  de- 
lightful wag,  that  Abbe  Villars  ! 

The  philosophers  are  described  by  the  Count  as  the  instruc- 
tors and  the  saviours  of  the  poor  elementary  folk,  who,  but  for 
their  assistance  in  forming  liaisons  with  mortals,  would  inevi- 
tably at  last  fall  into  the  hands  of  their  enemy,  the  devil.  As 
soon,  he  says,  as  a  sylph  has  learnt  from  us  how  to  pronounce 
cabbalistically  the  potent  name  Nehmahmihah,'  and  to  com- 
bine it,  in  due  form,  with  the  delicious  name  Eliael,  all  the 
powers  of  darkness  take  to  flight,  and  the  sylph  enjoys,  unmo- 
lested, the  love  he  seeks  ! 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Hovv  universal  seems  to  have  been  the  faitli 
in  the  magical  efficacy  of  certain  words,  from  the  earliest  to  the 
latest  times,  among  the  more  sober  as  well  as  the  most  extrava- 
gant theurgists.  A  long  list  of  them  might  be  drawn  up. 
There  is  the  Indian  o-u-m  ;  there  are  the  Ephesian  letters  ; 
with  Demogorgon,  'dreaded  name,'  as  Milton  reminds  us  ;  the 
barbarous  words,  too,  which  the  Chaldean  oracles  and  Psellus 
declare  must  on  no  account  be  Hellenised. 

Gower.  And  the  word  Agla,  I  remember,  in  Colin  de 
Plancy,  which,  when  duly  pronounced,  facing  the  east,  makes 
absent  persons  appear,  and  discovers  lost  property.*  I  suppose 
the  potency  is  in  proportion  to  the  unintelligibility  of  the  terms. 

^  Comic  de  Gahalis,  \>.\i^.  Seethe  Infernal,  Art.  Cabale.  Horst  fur- 
Story  of  Noah's  calamity,  and  the  nishes  a  number  of  such  words,  Zau- 
sa'amander  Oromasis,  p.  140.  berbiblix'thek,  vol.  ill.  xvi.  2. 

■*  See  Colin  de  Plancy's  Dictionnaire 


e.g.]  Names  of  Magical  Viriitc.  141 

Atherton.  The  Comte  de  Gabalis  tells  us  how  the  Sala- 
mander Oramasis  enabled  Shem  and  Japhet  to  restore  the 
patriarch  Noah  to  his  former  vigour  by  instructing  them  how 
to  pronounce  six  times  alternately,  walking  backward,  the  tre- 
mendous name  Jabamiah. 

But  the  word  above  every  word  is  the  Shemhamphorash  of 
the  Talmud.*  The  latter  rabbins  say  that  Moses  was  forty  days 
on  INIount  Sinai,  to  learn  it  of  the  angel  Saxael.  Solomon 
achieved  his  fiend-compelling  wonders  by  its  aid.  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  they  say,  stole  it  from  the  Temple,  and  was  enabled 
by  its  virtue  to  delude  the  people.  It  is  now,  alas  !  lost ;  but 
could  any  one  rightly  and  devoutly  pronounce  it,  he  would  be 
able  to  create  therewith  a  Avorld.  Even  approximate  sounds 
and  letters,  supplied  by  rabbinical  conjecture,  give  their  pos- 
sessor power  over  the  spirit-world,  from  the  first-class  archangel 
to  the  vulgar  ghost :  he  can  heal  the  sick,  raise  the  dead,  and 
destroy  his  enemies. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  It  is  curious  to  see  some  of  these  theosophists, 

*  Horst  inserts  in  his  Zauberbibliu-  favour.       Eisenmenger    gives    a    full 

thck  the  whole  of  a  once  famous  cab-  account  of  all  the  legends  connected 

balistic  treatise,  entitled  Semiphoras  ct  therewith,  E)itdccktes  Judenthum,  vol. 

Shctnhaitiphoj-as    Saljmonis  Hegis,  a  i.  pp.  157,  424,  581,  &c.  (Ed.  1711). 
medley   of  astrological   and  theurgic  The  rationale  of  its  virtue,  if  we  may 

doctrine  and  prescription.     The  word  so  call  it,  affords  a  characteristic  illus- 

Shemhamphorash  is  not  the  real  word  tration    of    the   cabbalistic   principle, 

of  power,  but  an  expression  or  conven-  The   Divine  Being  was    supposed    to 

tional  representative  of  it.  The  Rabbis  have  commenced  the  work  of  creation 

dispute  whether  the  genuine  word  con-  by  concentrating  on  certain  points  the 

sisted  of  twelve,  two-and-forty,  or  two-  primal  universal    Light.     Within  the 

and  seventy-letters.     Their  Gematria  region  of  these  was  the  appointed  place 

or  cabbalistic  arithmetic,  endeavours  of  our  world.     Out  of  the  remaining 

partially  to  reconstruct  it.     Tliey  are  himinoiis  points,  or  foci,  he  constructed 

agreed  that  the  prayers  of  Israel  avail  certain   letters — a  heavenly  alphabet. 

now  so  little  because  this  word  is  lost.  These  characters  he  again  combined 

and  they  know  not   '  the  iiain,!  of  the  into    certain    creative   words,    whose 

Lord.'     But  a  couple  of  its  real  letters,  secret  potency  produced  tlie  forms  of 

inscribed  by  a  potent  cabbalist  on  a  the  material  world.     The  word  Shem- 

tablet,  and  thrown  into  the  sea,  raised  hamphorash  contains  the  sum  of  these 

the  storm  which  destroyed  the  fleet  of  celestial  letters,  with  all  their  inherent 

Charles  \'.  in   1542.     Write  it  on  the  virtue,  m  its  mightiest  combination. — 

person  of  a  prince  (a  ticklish  business,  Horst,  Zaubcrbibliothek,  vol.  iv.  p.  131. 
surely),  and  you  arc  sure  of  his  abiding 


14^        Theosophy  in  the  Age  of  the  Reformation.     [»•  vin. 

who  cry  out  so  against  the  letter,  becoming  its  abject  bondsmen 
among  the  pueriHties  of  the  Cabbala.  They  protest  loudly  that 
the  mere  letter  is  an  empty  shell — and  then  discover  stupendous 
powers  lying  intrenched  within  the  carves  and  angles  of  a 
Hebrew  character. 

Atherton.  Our  seventeenth  century  mystics,  even  when 
most  given  to  romancing,  occupied  but  a  mere  corner  of  that ' 
land  of  marvel  in  which  their  Jewish  contemporaries  rejoiced. 
The  Jews,  in  their  dsemonology,  leave  the  most  fantastic  con- 
ceptions of  all  other  times  and  nations  at  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance. Their  afifluence  of  devils  is  amazing.  Think  of  it  ! — 
Rabbi  Huna  tells  you  that  every  rabbi  has  a  thousand  daemons 
at  his  left  hand,  and  ten  thousand  at  his  right :  the  sensation 
of  closeness  in  a  room  of  Jewish  assembly  comes  from  the  press 
of  their  crowding  multitudes  :  has  a  rabbi  a  threadbare  gabar- 
dine and  holes  in  his  shoes,  it  is  from  the  friction  of  the  swarm- 
ing devilry  that  everywhere  attends  him.^ 

GowER.  To  return  to  societies — did  you  ever  hear,  Wil- 
loughby,  of  the  Philadelphian  Association?' 

WiLLOUGHBV.  That  founded  by  Pordage,  do  you  mean — the 
doctor  who  fought  the  giant  so  stoutly  one  night? 

GowER.  The  same.  I  picked  up  a  book  of  his  at  a  stall  the 
other  day. 

Kate.  Who  was  he  ?     Pray  tell  us  the  story  of  the  battle. 

GowER.  A  Royalist  clergyman  who  took  to  medicine  under 
the  Protectorate.  The  story  is  simply  this. — Pordage,  whose 
veracity  even  his  enemies  do  not  impugn,  declares  that  he 

^  See    Das    transccndentale    magie  thirsty  land    longeth   after    water, — 

tind  magische  Heilartcn  im  Talmud,  because  their  persons  are  so  agreeable, 

von  Dr.  G.  Brecher,  p.  52.     Eisenmen-  Not  so,  rejoins  Eisenmenger,  but  l)e- 

ger,   Entdecktcs  Judcnfhttm,    ii.   pp.  cause  both  liate  the  gospel  and  love 

445,  &c.  tlie  works  of  darkness. — (p.  447.) 

The    Traciat  Berachoih    says    the  '  See  Horst's  Zauberbiblioihck,  vol. 

devils  delight  to  be  about  the  Rabbis,  i.  pp.  314-327. 
as  a  wife  desireth  her  husband,  and  a 


c.  9.]  Pordage — the  PJiiladelphian  Society.  143 

woke  from  sleep  one  night,  and  saw  before  his  bed  a  giant 
'horrible  and  high,'  with  an  enormous  sword  drawn  in  one 
hand,  and  an  uprooted  tree  in  the  other.  The  monster  evidently 
means  mischief.  The  Doctor  seizes  his  walking-stick.  Round 
swings  the  lumbering  tree-trunk,  up  goes  the  nimble  staff 

Atherton.  What  became  of  the  bedposts  ? 

GowER.  Hush,  base  materialist !  The  weapons  were  but  the 
symbols  of  the  conflict,  and  were  symbolically  flourished.  The 
real  combat  was  one  of  spirit  against  spirit — wholly  internal ; 
what  would  now  be  called  electro-biological.  Each  antagonist 
bent  against  his  foe  the  utmost  strength  of  will  and  imagination. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Somewhat  after  the  manner  of  the  Astras 
which  the  Indian  gods  hurled  at  each  other — spells  of  strong 
volition,  which  could  parch  their  object  with  heat,  freeze  him 
with  cold,  lash  him  with  hail,  shut  him  up  in  immobility, 
though  hundreds  of  miles  away. 

Atherton.  Surpassing  powers  those,  indeed ;  not  even  re- 
quiring the  present  eye  and  will  of  the  operator  to  master  the 
imagination  of  the  subject  mind. 

Kate.  And  the  battle  in  the  bedroom  ? 

GowER.  Ta"sted  half  an  hour;  when  the  giant,  finding  Dr. 
Pordage  a  tough  customer,  took  his  departure. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Pordage  was  a  great  student  and  admirer  of 
Behmen  ;  but,  unlike  his  master,  an  inveterate  spirit-seer.  I 
dare  say  he  actually  had  a  dream  to  the  effect  you  relate. 

GowER.  But  he  and  the  whole  Philadelphian  Society — a 
coterie  of  some  twenty  ghost-seers — profess  to  have  seen  appa- 
ritions of  angels  and  devils,  in  broad  daylight,  every  day,  for 
nearly  a  month. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  What  were  they  like  ? 

GowER.  The  chief  devils  drove  in  chariots  of  black  cloud, 
drawn  by  inferior  daemons  in  the  form  of  dragons,  bears,  and 
lions.     The  spirits  of  wicked  men  were  the  ugliest  of  all, — 


144         Theosophy  hi  the  Age  of  the  Rcforination.      [n.  vm. 

cloven-footed,  cats-eared,  tusked,  crooked-mouthed,  bow-legged 
creatures. 

Atherton,  Did  the  Philadelphians  profess  to  see  the  spirits 
with  the  inward  or  the  bodily  eye  ? 

GowER.  With  both.  They  saw  them  in  whole  armies  and 
processions,  gliding  in  through  wall  or  window-pane — saw  them 
as  well  with  the  eyes  shut  as  open.  For,  by  means  of  the 
sympathy  between  soul  and  body,  the  outer  eye,  says  Pordage, 
is  made  to  share  the  vision  of  the  inner.  When  we  cease  to 
use  that  organ,  the  internal  vision  is  no  less  active.  I  should 
add  that  the  members  were  conscious  of  a  most  unpleasant 
smell,  and  were  troubled  with  a  sul])hurous  taste  in  the  mouth 
while  such  appearances  lasted. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Mrs.  Lcade  is  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of 
their  number, — a  widow  of  good  family  from  Norfolk,  who  for- 
sook the  world  and  retired  into  her  inmost  self,  holding  inter- 
course with  spirits  and  writing  her  revelations. 

GowER.  She,  I  believe,  carried  to  its  practical  extreme  the 
Paracelsian  doctrine  concerning  the  magical  power  of  faith. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  That  is  her  One  idea.  By  union  with  the  divine 
Avill,  she  says,  the  ancient  believers  wrought  their  miracles. 
Faith  has  now  the  same  prerogative  :  the  will  of  the  soul, 
wholly  yielded  to  God,  becomes  a  resistless  power,  can  bind 
and  loose,  bless  and  ban,  throughout  the  universe.  Had  any 
considerable  number  among  men  a  faith  so  strong,  rebellious 
nature  would  be  subdued  by  their  holy  spells,  and  Paradise 
restored. 

Atherton.  Some  of  the  German  Romanticists  have  revived 
this  idea — never,  perhaps,  wholly  dead.  Some  stir  was  made 
for  awhile  by  the  theory  that  the  power  of  miracle  was  native 
in  man — and  haply  recoverable. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Such  a  doctrine  is  but  one  among  the  many 
retrogressions  of  the  mediseval  school. 


BOOK    THE    NINTH 


THE     SPANISH     MYSTICS 


VOL.  II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  is  no  flaming  lustre,  made  of  light, 

No  sweet  concert  nor  well-timed  harmony, 

Ambrosia,  for  to  feast  the  appetite, 

Of  flowery  odour  mixed  with  spicery, — 

No  soft  embrace,  or  pleasure  bodily  ; 

And  yet  it  is  a  kind  of  inward  feast, 
A  harmony  that  sounds  within  the  breast, 
An  odour,  light,  embrace,  in  which  the  soul  doth  rest. 

A  heavenly  feast  no  hunger  can  consume  ; 

A  light  unseen  yet  shines  in  every  place  ; 

A  sound  no  time  can  steal  ;  a  sweet  perfume 

No  winds  can  scatter  ;  an  entire  embrace 

That  no  satiety  can  e'er  unlace  ; 

Engraced  into  so  high  a  favour  there, 
The  saints  with  all  their  peers  whole  worlds  outwear, 
And  things  unseen  do  see,  and  thing  unheard  do  hear. 

Gii.Ks  Fletcher. 

^  OWER  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  read,  on  two  successive 
^-^  evenings,  the  following  paper  on  the  Mysticism  of  the 
Counter-Reformation,  as  illustrated  principally  by  its  two 
Spanish  champions,  St.  Theresa  and  St.  John  of  the  Cross : — 

I.  Sai7ii  Theresa. 

On  the  revival  of  letters  the  mysticism  of  Alexandria  reap- 
peared in  Florence.  That  lamp  which,  in  the  study  of  Ficinus, 
burnt  night  and  day  before  the  bust  of  Plato,  proclaimed,  in 
reality,  the  worship  of  Plotinus.  The  erudite  feebleness  of 
Alexandrian  eclecticism  lived  again  in  Gemisthus  Pletho, — 
blended,  as  of  old,  Platonic  ideas,  oriental  emanations,  and 
Hellenic  legend, — dreamed  of  a  philosophic  worship,  emascu- 
lated and  universal,  which  should  harmonize  in  a  common 
vagueness  all  the  religions  of  the  world.     Nicholas  of  Cusa  re- 

L  2 


148  TJic  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

adapted  the  allegorical  mathematics  which  had  flourished 
beneath  the  Ptolemies  and  restored  the  Pythagoras  of  the  Neo- 
Platonists.  Pico  of  Mirandola  (the  admirable  Crichton  of  his 
time)  sought  to  reconcile  the  dialectics  of  Aristotle  with  the 
oracles  of  Chaldsea,  and  to  breathe  into  withered  scholasticism 
the  mysterious  life  of  Cabbalistic  wisdom.  An  age  so  greedy 
of  antiquity  was  imposed  on  by  the  most  palpable  fabrications  ; 
and  Greece  beheld  the  servile  product  of  her  second  childhood 
reverenced  as  the  vigorous  promise  of  her  first.  Patricius 
sought  the  sources  of  Greek  philosophy  in  writings  attributed 
to  Hermes  and  Zoroaster.  He  wrote  to  Gregory  XIV.  propos- 
ing that  authors  such  as  these  should  be  substituted  for  Aristotle 
in  the  schools,  as  the  best  means  of  advancing  true  religion 
and  reclaiming  heretical  Germany. 

The  position  of  these  scholars  with  regard  to  Protestantism 
resembles,  not  a  little,  that  of  their  Alexandrian  predecessors 
when  confronted  by  Christianity.  They  were  the  philosophic 
advocates  of  a  religion  in  which  they  had  themselves  lost  faith. 
They  attempted  to  reconcile  a  corrupt  philosophy  and  a  corrupt 
religion,  and  they  made  both  worse.  The  love  of  literature 
and  art  was  confined  to  a  narrow  circle  of  courtiers  and  literati. 
While  Lutheran  pamphlets  in  the  vernacular  set  all  the  North 
in  a  flame,  the  philosophic  refinements  of  the  Florentine  dilet- 
tanti were  aristocratic,  exclusive,  and  powerless.  Their  intel- 
lectual position  was  fatal  to  sincerity ;  their  social  condition 
equally  so  to  freedom.  The  despotism  of  the  Roman  emperors 
was  more  easily  evaded  by  a  philosopher  of  ancient  times  than 
the  tyranny  of  a  Visconti  or  a  D'Este,  by  a  scholar  at  Milan  or 
Ferrara.  It  was  the  fashion  to  patronise  men  of  letters.  But 
the  usual  return  of  subservience  and  flattery  was  rigorously 
exacted.  The  Italians  of  the  fifteenth  century  had  long  ceased 
to  be  familiar  with  the  worst  horrors  of  war,  and  Charles  VIII., 
with  his  ferocious  Frenchmen,  appeared  to  them  another  Attila. 


c.  I.]  The  Rroival  of  Nco-Platonism.  149 

Each  Italian  state  underwent,  on  its  petty  scale,  the  fate  of  Im- 
perial Rome.  The  philosophic  and  religious  conservatism  of 
Florence  professed  devotion  to  a  church  which  reproduced, 
with  most  prolific  abundance,  the  superstitions  of  by- gone 
Paganism, — of  that  very  Paganism  in  whose  behalf  the  Neo- 
Platonist  philosopher  entered  the  lists  against  the  Christian 
father.  To  such  men,  the  earnest  religious  movement  of  the 
North  was  the  same  mysterious,  barbaric,  formidable  foe  which 
primitive  Christianity  had  been  to  the  Alexandrians.  The  old 
conflict  between  Pagan  and  Christian— the  man  of  taste  and 
the  man  of  faith — the  man  who  lived  for  the  past,  and  the  man 
who  lived  for  the  future,  was  renewed,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
between  the  Italian  and  the  German.  The  Florentine  Plato- 
nists,  moreover,  not  only  shared  in  the  weakness  of  their  proto- 
types, as  the  occupants  of  an  attitude  radically  false ;  they  failed 
to  exhibit  in  their  lives  that  austerity  of  morals  which  won 
respect  for  Plotinus  and  Porphyry,  even  among  those  who 
cared  nothing  for  their  speculations.  Had  Romanism  been 
unable  to  find  defenders  more  thoroughly  in  earnest,  the  shock 
she  then  received  must  have  been  her  deathblow.  She  must 
have  perished  as  Paganism  perished.  But,  wise  in  her  genera- 
tion, she  took  her  cause  out  of  the  hands  of  that  graceful  and 
heartless  Deism,  so  artificial  and  so  self-conscious, — too  im- 
palpable and  too  refined  for  any  real  service  to  gods  or  men. 
She  needed  men  as  full  of  religious  convictions  as  were  these 
of  philosophical  and  poetic  conceits.  She  needed  men  to 
whom  the  bland  and  easy  incredulity  of  such  symposium-loving 
scholars  was  utterly  inconceivable — abhorrent  as  the  devil  and 
all  his  works.  And  such  men  she  found.  For  by  reason  of 
the  measure  of  truth  she  held,  she  was  as  powerful  to  enslave 
the  noblest  as  to  unleash  the  vilest  passions  of  our  nature.  It 
\\as  given  her,  she  said,  to  bind  and  to  loose.  It  was  time, 
she  knew,  to  bind  up  mercy  and  to  loose  revenge.    A  succession 


150  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

of  ferocious  sanctities  fulminated  from  the  chair  of  St.  Peter. 
Science  was  immured  in  the  person  of  Gahleo.  The  scholar- 
ship, so  beloved  by  Leo,  would  have  been  flung  into  the  jaws 
of  the  Inquisition  by  Caraffa.  Every  avenue,  open  once  on 
sufierance,  to  freer  thought  and  action,  was  rigorously  blocked 
up.  Princes  were  found  willing  to  cut  off  the  right  hand,  pluck 
out  the  right  eye  of  their  people,  that  Rome  might  triumph  by 
this  suicide  of  nations.  But  nowhere  did  she  find  a  prince  and 
a  people  alike  so  swift  to  shed  blood  at  her  bidding,  as  among 
that  imperious  race  of  which  Philip  II.  was  at  once  the 
sovereign  and  the  type.  In  Spain  was  found,  in  its  perfection, 
the  chivalry  of  persecution  :  there  dwelt  the  aristocracy  of 
fanaticism.  It  was  long  doubtful  whether  the  Roman  or  the 
Spanish  Inquisition  was  the  more  terrible  for  craft,  the  more  in- 
genious in  torments,  the  more  glorious  with  blood. 

But  Spain  was  not  merely  the  political  and  military  head  of 
the  Counter-Reformation.  She  contributed  illustrious  names 
to  relume  the  waning  galaxy  of  saints.  Pre-eminent  among 
these  luminaries  shine  Ignatius  Loyola,  Theresa,  and  John  of 
the  Cross.  The  first  taught  Rome  what  she  had  yet  to  learn 
in  the  diplomacy  of  superstition.  Education  and  intrigue  be- 
came the  special  province  of  his  order:  it  was  the  training 
school  of  the  teachers  :  it  claimed  and  merited  the  monopoly 
of  the  vizard  manufacture.  Rome  found  in  Theresa  her  most 
famous  seeress ;  in  John,  her  consummate  ascetic.  It  was  not 
in  the  upper  region  of  mysticism  that  the  narrow  intellect  and 
invincible  will  of  Loyola  were  to  realize  distinction.  He  had 
his  revelations,  indeed, — was  rapt  away  to  behold  the  mystery 
of  the  Trinity  made  manifest,  and  the  processes  of  creation 
detailed.  But  such  favours  are  only  the  usual  insignia  so 
proper  to  the  founder  of  an  order.  Compared  with  St.  Francis 
the  life  of  Ignatius  is  poor  in  vision  and  in  miracle.  But  his 
relics  have  since  made  him  ample  amends.    Bartoli  enumerates 


c.  I.]  Blind  Obedience  of  Spanish  Saints.  15t 


a  hundred  miraculous  cures.'  John  and  Theresa  were  mystics 
par  excellence :  the  former,  of  the  most  abstract  theopathetic 
school ;  the  latter,  with  a  large  infusion  of  the  theurgic  element, 
unrivalled  in  vision — angelic  and  daemoniacal. 

But  one  principle  is  dominant  in  the  three,  and  is  the  secret 
of  the  saintly  honours  paid  them.  In  the  alarm  and  wrath 
awakened  by  the  Reformation,  Rome  was  supremely  concerned 
to  enforce  the  doctrine  of  blind  obedience  to  ecclesiastical  supe- 
riors. These  Spanish  saints  lived  and  laboured  and  sufiered  to 
commend  this  dogma  to  the  Church  and  to  all  mankind. 
Summoned  by  the  Rule  of  Obedience,  they  were  ready  to  inflict 
or  to  endure  the  utmost  misery.  Their  natures  were  precisely 
of  the  kind  most  fitted  to  render  service  and  receive  promotion 
at  that  juncture.  They  were  glowing  and  ductile.  Their  very 
virtues  were  the  dazzle  of  the  red-hot  brand,  about  to  stamp 
the  brow  with  slavery.  Each  excellence  displayed  by  such 
accomplished  advocates  of  wrong,  withered  one  of  the  rising 
hopes  of  mankind.  Their  prayers  watered  with  poisoned 
water  every  growth  of  promise  in  the  field  of  Europe.  Their 
Herculean  labours  were  undertaken,  not  to  destroy,  but  to 
multiply  the  monsters  which  infested  every  highway  of  thought. 
Wherever  the  tears  of  Theresa  fell,  new  weeds  of  superstition 
sprang  up.  Every  shining  austerity  endured  by  John  gilded 
another  link  in  the  chain  which  should  bind  his  fellows.  The 
jubilant  bells  of  their  devotion  rang  the  knell  of  innumerable 
martyrs. 

In  the  fourteenth  century,  mysticism  was  often  synonymous 
with  considerable  freedom  of  thought.  In  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries,  it  was  allowed  to  exist  only  as  it 
subserved  the  ecclesiastical  scheme.  The  problem  was, — how 
to  excite  the  feeling  and  imagination  of  the  devotee  to  the 
highest  pitch,  and  yet  to  retain  him  in  complete  subjection  to 
1  Alban  Butler,  July  31. 


I  5  2  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [n.  ix. 

the  slightest  movement  of  the  rein.  Of  this  problem  John  and 
Theresa  are  the  practical  and  complete  solution.  All  their  fire 
went  off  by  the  legitimate  conducting-rod  :  every  flash  was 
serviceable  :  not  a  gleam  was  wasted.  Once  mysticism  was  a 
kind  of  escape  for  nature.  The  mystic  left  behind  him  much 
of  the  coarse  externalism  necessary  to  his  Church,  and  found 
refuge  in  an  inner  world  of  feeling  and  imagination.  But  now 
the  Church,  by  means  of  the  confessor,  made  mysticism  itself 
the  innermost  dungeon  of  her  prison-house.  Every  emotion 
was  methodically  docketed ;  every  yearning  of  the  heart 
minutely  catalogued.  The  sighs  must  always  ascend  in  the 
right  place  :  the  tears  must  trickle  in  orthodox  course.  The 
prying  calculations  of  the  casuist  had  measured  the  sweep  of 
every  wave  in  the  heaving  ocean  of  the  soul.  The  instant 
terrible  knife  cut  off  the  first  spray  of  love  that  shot  out  beyond 
the  trimly-shaven  border  of  prescription.  Strong  feelings  were 
dangerous  guests,  unless  they  knew  (like  the  old  Romans) 
when  to  go  home  and  slay  themselves,  did  that  Tiberius,  the 
director,  but  bestow  on  them  a  frown. 

In  France,  too,  mysticism  was  to  fall  under  the  same  yoke ; 
but  the  Frenchman  could  never  reach  the  hard  austerity  of  the 
Spaniard.  The  sixteenth  century  produced  St.  Francis  de  Sales 
on  the  north,  and  St.  John  of  the  Cross  on  the  south,  of  the 
Pyrenees.  With  the  former,  mysticism  is  tender,  genial,  grace- 
ful ;  it  appeals  to  every  class  ;  it  loves  and  would  win  all  men. 
With  the  latter,  it  is  a  dark  negation — a  protracted  suffering — • 
an  anguish  and  a  joy  known  only  to  the  cloister.  De  Sales 
was  to  John,  as  a  mystic,  what  Henry  IV.  was  to  Philip  as  a 
Catholic  King.  Even  in  Italy,  the  Counter-Reformation  was 
comparatively  humane  and  philanthropic  with  Carlo  Borromeo. 
In  Spain  alone  is  it  little  more,  at  its  very  best,  than  a  fantastic 
gloom  and  a  passionate  severity. 

But  everywhere  the  principle  of  subserviency  is  in  the  ascen- 


J.]  Satni  Theresa.  153 


dant.    The  valetudinarian  devotee  becomes  more  and  more  the 

puppet  of  his  spiritual  doctor.    The  director  winds  him  up.   He 

derives  his  spiritless  semblance  of  life  wholly  from  the  priestly 

mechanism.     It  may  be  said  of  him,  as  of  the  sick  man  in 

Massinger's  play, 

That  he  lives  he  owes 
To  art,  not  Nature  ;  she  has  given  him  o'er. 
He  moves,  Uke  the  fairy  king,  on  screws  and  wheels 
Made  by  his  doctor's  recipes,  and  yet  still 
They  are  out  of  joint,  and  every  day  repairing. 

Theresa  was  born  at  Avila,  in  the  year  15 15,  just  two  years 
(as  Ribadeneira  reminds  us)  before  '  that  worst  of  men,'  Martin 
Luther.''  The  lives  of  the  saints  were  her  nursery  tales. 
Cinderella  is  matter  of  fact ;  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  com- 
monplace, beside  the  marvellous  stories  that  must  have 
nourished  her  infantine  faculty  of  wonder.  At  seven  years  old 
she  thinks  eternal  bliss  cheaply  bought  by  martyrdom  ;  sets 
out  with  her  little  brother  on  a  walk  to  Africa,  hoping  to  be 
despatched  by  the  Moors,  and  is  restored  to  her  disconsolate 
parents  by  a  cruel  matter-of-fact  uncle,  who  meets  them  at  the 
bridge.  Her  dolls'  houses  are  nunneries.  These  children 
construct  in  the  garden,  not  dirt  pies,  but  mud-hermitages  ; 
which,  alas  !  will  always  tumble  down. 

As  she  grows  up,  some  gay  associates,  whose  talk  is  of  rib- 
bons, lovers,  and  bull-fights,  secularise  her  susceptible  mind. 
She  reads  many  romances  of  chivalry,  and  spends  more  time 
at  the  glass.  Her  father  sends  her,  when  fifteen,  to  a  convent 
of  Augustinian  nuns  in  Avila,  to  rekindle  her  failing  devotion. 
A  few  days  reconcile  her  to  the  change,  and  she  is  as  religous 
as  ever. 

Then,  what  with  a  violent  fever,  Jerome's  Epistles,  and  a 
priest-ridden  uncle,  she  resolves    on    becoming    a  nun.     Her 

*  Ribadeneira,  Flos  Sanctorum,  Appendix,  p.  35  (Ed.  1659). 


1 54  l^h^  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 


father  refuses  his  consent ;  so  she  determines  on  a  pious 
elopement,  and  escapes  to  the  Carmelite  convent.  There  she 
took  the  vows  in  her  twentieth  year/ 

We  find  her  presently  vexed,  like  so  many  of  the  Romanist 
female  saints,  with  a  strange  complication  of  maladies, — cramps, 
convulsions,  catalepsies,  vomitings,  faintings,  &c.  &c.  At  one 
time  she  lay  four  days  in  a  state  of  coma  ;  her  grave  was  dug , 
hot  wax  had  been  dropped  upon  her  eyelids,  and  extreme 
unction  administered ;  the  funeral  service  was  performed ; 
when  she  came  to  herself,  expressed  her  desire  to  confess,  and 
received  the  sacrament.*  It  is  not  improbable  that  some  of  the 
trances  she  subsequently  experienced,  and  regarded  as  super- 
natural, may  have  been  bodily  seizures  of  a  similar  kind.  But 
at  this  time  she  was  not  good  enough  for  such  favours ;  so 
the  attacks  are  attributed  to  natural  causes.  It  is  significant 
that  the  miraculous  manifestations  of  the  Romish  Church  should 
have  been  vouchsafed  only  to  women  whose  constitution  (as 
in  the  case  of  the  Catharines  and  Lidwina)  was  thoroughly 
broken  down  by  years  of  agonizing  disease.  After  three  years 
(thanks  to  St.  Joseph)  Theresa  was  restored  to  comparative 
health,  but  remained  subject  all  her  life,  at  intervals,  to  severe 
pains.' 

On  her  recovery,  she  found  her  heart  still  but  too  much 
divided  between  Christ  and  the  world.  That  is  to  say,  she  was 
glad  when  her  friends  came  to  see  her,  and  she  enjoyed  witty 
and  agreeable  chat,  through  the  grating,  with  ladies  whose  con- 
versation was  not  always  confined  to  spiritual  topics.     Griev- 

3  Los  Libros  de  la  B.  M.  Teresa  de  *  Vida,  cap.  v.  p  26. 

Jesus,  Vida,  capp.  i.  iii.     This  edition  *  Teresa  confesses  that  during  the 

of  1615  contains  the  Crfw/wcfl'e /<? /^^r-  first  year  of  her  seizure   her  disorder 

fecion,    and   the    Castillo   cspiritual,  was  such  as  sometimes  completely  to 

with  the  Life.     The  Fonndations,  at  deprive  her  of  her  senses  : — Tan  grave, 

which    I    have   only   glanced   in   the  que  casi  me  privava  el  sentido  siempre, 

French,  are  devoted  to  business,  not  y  algunas  vezesdel  todoquedavasiael. 

mysticism.  — Pp.  17- 


0.  I.]  Prioress — Foundress  of  Convoiis.  155 


ously  did  her  conscience  smite  her  for  such  unfaithfuhiess,  and 
bitterly  does  she  regret  the  laxity  of  her  confessors,  who  failed 
to  tell  her  that  it  was  a  heinous  crime. 

In  her  twenty-fourth  year  she  resumed  the  practice  of  mental 
prayer,  and  for  the  next  twenty  years  continued  it,  with  many 
inward  vicissitudes,  and  alternate  tendernesses  and  desertions 
on  the  part  of  the  Divine  Bridegroom.  Her  forty-fourth  year 
is  memorable  as  the  season  of  her  entrance  on  those  higher 
experiences,  which  have  made  her  name  famous  as  the  great 
revivalist  of  supernatural  prayer  and  mystical  devotion  in  the 
sixteenth  century. 

The  Saint  Bartholomew's  day  of  1562  was  a  day  of  glory  for 
our  saint.  Then  was  consecrated  the  new  Convent  of  St. 
Joseph,  at  Avila,  established  in  spite  of  so  much  uproar  and 
opposition  ;  that  convent  wherein  the  primitive  austerity  of  the 
Carmelite  Order  was  to  be  restored,— where  Theresa  is 
presently  appointed  prioress  (against  her  will,  as  usual), — 
where  there  shall  be  no  chats  at  the  grating,  no  rich  endow- 
ment ;  but  thirteen  '  fervent  virgins  '  shall  dwell  there,  discal- 
ceated  (that  is  sandalled  not  shod),  serge-clad,  flesh-abhorring, 
couched  on  straw,  and  all  but  perpetually  dumb."  The  re- 
mainder of  her  life,  from  about  her  fiftieth  year,  would  appear 
to  have  been  somewhat  less  fertile  in  marvellous  experiences. 
She  was  now  recognised  as  the  foundress  of  the  Reformed 
Carmelites,  and  could  produce  warrant  from  Rome,  authorizing 
her  to  found  as  many  convents  of  the  Bare-footed  as  she 
pleased.  She  was  harassed  by  the  jealous  intrigues  of  the  old 
'  mitigated '  Order,  but  indefatigably  befriended  by  John  of  the 
Cross,  and  other  thorough-going  ascetics.  She  lived  to  see 
established  sixteen  nunneries  of  the  Reformed,  and  fourteen 
monasteries  for  friars  of  the  same  rule.  She  has  left  us  a  long 
history  of  her  foundations,  of  all  the  troubles  and  difficulties 
'^  Vida,  cap.  xxxvi. 


1  jO  Tne  Spanish  Mystics.  [n.  ix. 


she  overcame  ;  showing  how  funds  were  often  not  forthcomuig, 
but  faith  was ;  liow  apathy  and  opposition  were  done  away ; 
and  how  busy  she  must  have  been  (too  busy  for  many  visions) ; 
all  of  which  let  whomsoever  read  that  can. 

In  the  year  1 562,  when  Theresa  had  successfully  commenced 
the  reformation  of  her  Order,  she  wrote  her  life,  at  the  bid- 
ding of  her  confessor.  In  this  autobiography  her  spiritual 
history  is  laid  bare  without  reserve.  The  narrative  was 
published  by  her  superiors,  and  therein  the  heretic  may  listen 
to  what  she  whispered  in  the  ear  of  her  director  during  the 
years  most  prolific  in  extravagance.  We  can  thus  discern  the 
working  of  the  confessional.  Commanded  to  disclose  her  most 
secret  thoughts,  we  see  her  nervously  afraid  of  omitting  to 
indicate  the  minutest  variations  of  the  rehgious  thermometer, 
of  approaching  the  committal  of  that  sin  which  Romanist 
devotees  only  can  commit — concealment  from  a  confessor. 
She  searches  for  evil  in  herself,  and  creates  it  by  the  search. 
The  filmiest  evanescence  of  the  feeling  has  to  be  detained  and 
anatomized,  and  changes  into  something  else  under  the  scrutiny. 
It  is  as  though  she  had  let  into  her  crucifix  a  piece  of  looking- 
glass,  that  she  might  see  reflected  every  transport  of  devotion, 
and  faithfully  register  the  same  in  her  memory  against  the  next 
shrift.  After  some  excess  of  rapture,  she  must  set  to  work  at 
her  technical  analysis ;  observe  what  faculties  were  dormant, 
and  what  still  active — what  regions  of  the  mind  were  tenanted 
by  divinity,  and  what  still  left  to  the  possession  of  her  sinful 
self.  Her  intellect  was  never  strong.  She  confesses  that  she 
found  her  understanding  rather  in  the  way  than  otherwise.^ 
Under  this  omnipresent  spiritual  despotism  it  fell  prostrate 
utterly.  When  she  has  been  favoured  with  a  vision,  she  is  not 
to  know  whether  it  has  steamed  up  from  hell  or  been  let  down 

1   Vida,  p.  83. 


I.]  Theresa* s  Autobiography.  157 


from  heaven,  until  the  decision  of  her  confessor  fills  her  with 
horror  or  delight.  The  cloister  is  her  universe.  Her  mind, 
unformed,  and  uninformed,  is  an  empty  room,  papered  with 
leaves  from  her  breviary.  She  knew  little  of  that  charity 
which  makes  gracious  inroads  on  the  outer  world ;  which 
rendered  human  so  many  of  her  sister- saints  ;  which  we  admire 
and  pity  in  Madame  de  Chantal.  admire  and  love  in  Madame 
Guyon.  No  feet-washing  do  we  read  of,  open  or  secret ; 
no  hospital-tending,  no  ministry  among  the  poor.  The  greater 
activity  of  her  later  years  brought  her  in  contact  with  scarcely 
any  but  '  religious '  persons.  Her  ascetic  zeal  was  directed,  not 
for,  but  against,  the  mitigation  of  suffering.  It  made  many 
monks  and  nuns  uncomfortable ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that  it 
made  any  sinners  better,  or  any  wretched  happy.  Peter  of 
Alcantara  is  her  admiration ;  he  who  for  forty  years  never  slept 
more  than  one  hour  and  a  half  in  the  twenty-four,  and  then  in 
a  sitting  posture,  with  his  head  against  a  wooden  peg  in  the 
wall ;  who  ate  in  general  only  every  third  day;  and  who  looked, 
she  says,  as  if  he  were  made  of  the  roots  of  trees  {Jiecho  dc 
reyzcs  de  arboks^).  Lodged  in  her  monastic  cranny  of  creation, 
she  convulses  herself  with  useless  fervours,  absolutely  ignorant 
of  all  things  and  persons  non-ecclesiastical.  Her  highest 
ambition  is  to  reduce  the  too-palpable  reality  of  herself  to  the 
minutest  possible  compass,  and  to  hide  herself— a  kind  of 
parasitical  insect  or  entozoon — in  the  personality  of  her  con- 
fessor. Yet,  complete  as  is  this  suicide,  she  is  never  sure  that 
she  is  sufficiently  dead,  and  incessantly- asks  him  \Uie  is  quite 
sure  that  she  is  sincere.  Such  a  life  is  an  object  of  compassion 
more  than  blame.  She  was  herself  the  victim  of  the  wicked 
system  to  which  her  name  was  to  impart  a  new  impulse.  The 
spasmodic  energy  she  at  last  displays  about  her  Reformation  is 
not  native  strength.     She  was  surrounded  from  the  first  by 

8   Vida,  cap.  xxvii.  p.  196. 


158  The  SpatiisTi  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 


those  who  saw  clearly  what  Rome  needed  at  that  time,  who 
beheld  in  her  first  almost  accidental  effort  the  germ  of  what 
they  desired,  and  in  herself  a  fit  instrument.  A  whisper  from 
one  of  these  guides  would  be  translated  by  such  an  imagination 
iuto  a  direct  commission  irom  heaven.  They  had  but  to  touch  a 
spring,  and  her  excitable  nature  was  surrounded  with  the 
phantasmagoria  of  vision ;  one  scene  produced  another,  and 
that  unfolded  into  more — all,  the  reiteration  and  expansion  or 
the  bent  once  given  to  her  fixed  idea. 

Theresa  experienced  her  first  rapture  while  reciting  the  Vent 
Creator^  when  she  heard  these  words  spoken  in  the  interior  of 
her  heart — '  I  will  have  thee  hold  converse,  not  with  men,  but 
angels.^  She  had  been  conscious,  on  several  previous  occa- 
sions, of  supernatural  excitements  in  prayer,  and  was  much 
perplexed  thereby,  as  indeed  were  several  of  her  confessors. 
Here  were  irresistible  devotional  seizures  for  which  they  had 
no  rule  ready.  They  suspected  an  evil  spirit,  advised  a 
struggle  against  such  extraordinary  influences.  But  the  more 
she  resists,  the  more  does  the  Lord  cover  her  with  sweetnesses 
and  glories,  heap  on  her  favours  and  caresses.  At  last  the 
celebrated  Francis  Borgia  comes  to  Avila.  The  Jesuit  bids 
her  resist  no  more  ;  and  she  goes  on  the  mystical  way  rejoicing. 
The  first  rapture  took  place  shortly  after  her  interviews  with 
the  future  General  of  the  Society  of  Jesus. 

A  word  on  this  system  of  spiritual  directorship.  It  is  the 
vital  question  for  mystics  of  the  Romish  communion.  No- 
where is  the  duty  of  implicit  self  surrender  to  the  director  or 
confessor  more  constantly  inculcated  than  in  the  writings  of 
Theresa  and  John  of  the  Cross,  and  nowhere  are  the  inadequacy 
and  mischief  of  the  principle  more  apparent.  John  warns  the 
mystic  that  his  only  safeguard  against  delusion  lies  in  perpetual 
and  unreserved  appeal  to  his  director.  Theresa  tells  us  that 
9  Vida,  cap.  xxiv.  p.  171. 


c.  I.]  The  Director.  159 

whenever  our  Lord  commanded  her  in  prayer  to  do  anything, 
and  her  confessor  ordered  the  opposite,  the  Divine  guide 
enjoined  obedience  to  the  human  ;  and  would  influence  the 
mind  of  the  confessor  afterwards,  so  that  he  was  moved  to 
counsel  what  he  had  before  forbidden  !'°  Of  course.  For 
who  knows  what  might  come  of  it  if  enthusiasts  were  to  have 
visions  and  revelations  on  their  own  account  ?  The  director 
must  draw  after  him  these  fiery  and  dangerous  natures,  as  the 
lion-leaders  of  an  Indian  pageantry  conduct  their  charge,  hold- 
ing a  chain  and  administering  opiates.  The  question  between 
the  orthodox  and  the  heterodox  mysticism  of  the  fourteenth 
century  was  really  one  of  theological  doctrine.  The  same 
question  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  was  simply  one  of 
ecclesiastical  interests.^^  The  condemned  quietists  were 
merely  mystics  imperfectly  subservient — unworkable  raw  ma- 
terial, and  as  such  flung  into  the  fire.  Out  of  the  very  same 
substance,  duly  wrought  and  fashioned,  might  have  come  a 
saint  like  Theresa.  By  the  great  law  of  P.omish  policy,  what- 
ever cannot  be  made  to  contribute  to  her  ornament  or  defence 
is  straightway  handed  over  to  the  devil.  Accordingly,  the  only 
mysticism  acknowledged  by  that  Church  grows  up  beneath  her 
walls,  and  invigorates,  with  herbs  of  magic  potency,  her 
garrison, — resembles  the  strip  of  culture  about  some  eastern 
frontier  town,  that  does  but  fringe  with  green  the  feet  of  the 
ramparts;  all  the  panorama  beyond,  a  wilderness;  —  for 
Bedouin  marauders  render  tillage  perilous  and  vain.  Thus,  O 
mystic,  not  a  step  beyond  that  shadow ;  or  hell's  black 
squadrons,  sweeping  down,  will  carry  thee  off  captive  to  their 
home  of  dolour  ! 

1"  Vida,  cap.  xxvi.  p.  i86.     Siempre  e  bolvia  para  que  me  lo  tornasse  a 

que  el  Senor  me  mandava  alguiia  cosa  mandar.     She  speaks  in  the  very  same 

ea  laoracion,  si  el  confessor  me  dezia  page  of  bad  advice  given  lier  by  one 

otra,  me  tornava  el  Seilor  a  dezir  que  of  her  confessors. 

le  obedeciesse  :  despues  su  Magestad  "  See  Note  on  p.  164. 


i6o  TJie  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

The  confessions  of  Theresa  are  a  continual  refutation  of  her 
counsels.  She  acknowledges  that  she  herself  had  long  and 
grievously  suffered  from  the  mistakes  of  her  early  directors. 
She  knew  others  also  who  had  endured  much  through  similar 
incompetency.  The  judgment  of  one  conductor  was  reversed 
by  his  successor.  She  exhorts  her  nuns  to  the  greatest  care 
in  the  selection  of  a  confessor, — on  no  account  to  choose  a 
vain  man  or  an  ignorant.  She  vindicates  their  liberty  to 
change  him  when  they  deem  it  desirable. ^^  John  of  the  Cross, 
too,  dilates  on  the  mischief  which  may  be  done  by  an  inex- 
perienced spiritual  guide.  At  one  time  Theresa  was  com- 
manded to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  when  Christ  manifested 
Himself  to  her,  as  though  the  appearance  had  been  the  work  of 
some  deceiving  spirit."  Her  next  guide  assured  her  that  the 
form  she  beheld  was  no  delusion.  Dreadful  discovery,  yet 
joyful !  She  had  attempted  to  exorcise  her  Lord ;  but  the 
virtue  of  obedience  had  blotted  out  the  sin  of  blasphemy. 
Thus  does  each  small  infaUibility  mould  her  for  his  season, 
and  then  pass  her  on  to  another.  Her  soul,  with  despair 
stamped  on  one  side  and  glory  imaged  on  the  other,  spins 
dizzy  in  the  air  ;  and  whether,  when  it  comes  down,  heaven  or 
hell  shall  be  uppermost,  depends  wholly  upon  the  twist  of  the 
ecclesiastical  thumb. 

But  to  return  to  her  marvellous  relations ;  and,  first  of  all, 
to  those  of  the  infernal  species.  On  one  occasion,  she  tells  us, 
she  was  favoured  with  a  brief  experience  of  the  place  she 
merited  in  hell : — a  kind  of  low  oven,  pitch  dark,  miry,  stink- 
ing, full  of  vermin,  where  sitting  and  lying  were  alike  im- 
possible;  where  the  walls  seemed  to  press  in  uDon  the  sufferer 
— crushing,  stifling,  burning  ;  where  in  solitude  the  lost  nature 
is  its  own  tormentor,  tearing  itself  in  a  desperate  misery,  inter 

1-    Vida,  p.  85  ;  Camino  de  Perfecion,  capp,  4  and  5. 
'^   Vida,  cap.  xxix.,  p.  209. 


c.  I.]  Visions.  i6i 

minable,  and  so  intense,  that  all  she  had  endured  from  rack- 
ing disease  was  deUghtful  in  comparison.'* 

At  another  time,  while  smitten  for  five  hours  together  with 
intolerable  pains,  the  Lord  was  pleased  to  make  her  under- 
stand that  she  was  tempted  by  the  devil ;  and  she  saw  him  at 
her  side  like  a  very  horrible  little  negro,  gnashing  his  teeth  at 
her.  At  last  she  contrived  to  sprinkle  some  holy  water  on 
the  place  where  he  was.  That  moment  he  and  her  pains 
vanished  together,  and  her  body  remained  as  though  she  had 
been  severely  beaten.  It  is  as  well  to  know  that  holy  water  will 
be  found  incomparably  your  best  weapon  in  such  cases.  The 
devils  will  fly  from  the  cross,  but  may  presently  return.  The 
drops  the  Church  has  blest,  do  their  business  effectually.  Two 
nuns,  who  came  into  the  room  after  the  victory  just  related, 
snuffed  up  the  air  of  the  apartment  with  manifest  disgust,  and 
complained  of  a  smell  of  brimstone.  Once  the  sisters  heard 
distinctly  the  great  thumps  the  devil  was  giving  her,  though 
she,  in  a  'state  of  recollection,'  was  unconscious  of  his  be- 
labouring. The  said  devil  squatted  one  day  on  her  breviary, 
and  at  another  time  had  all  but  strangled  her.'^  She  once  saw, 
with  the  eye  of  her  soul,  two  devils,  encompassing,  with  their 
meeting  horns,  the  neck  of  a  sinful  priest ;  and  at  the  funeral 
of  a  man  who  had  died  without  confession,  a  whole  swarm  of 
devils  tearing  and  tossing  the  body  and  sporting  in  the  grave. 

But  much  more  numerous,  though  as  gross  as  these,  are  her 
visions  of  celestial  objects.  '  Being  one  day  in  prayer,'  she 
tells  us,  '  our  Lord  was  pleased  to  show  me  his  sacred  hands, 
of  excessive  and  indescribable  beauty  ;  afterwards  his  divine 
face,  and  finally,  at  mass,  all  his  most  sacred  humanity.'  At 
one  of  his  appearances,  he  drew  out  with  his  right  hand,  the 
nail  which  transfixed  his  left,  some  of  the  flesh  following  it. 
Three  times  did  she  behold  in  her  raptures  the  most  sublime 

"   yida,  cap.  xxxii.  '*  Ibid.,  cap.  xxxi. 

VOL.  II.  M 


1 62  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  jx. 

of  all  visions — the  humanity  of  Christ  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Father ;  very  clear  to  her  mind,  but  impossible  to  explain. 
While  reciting  the  Athanasian  Creed  the  mystery  of  the  Trinit)' 
was  unfolded  to  her,  with  unutterable  wonderment  and 
comfort.  Our  Lord  paid  her,  one  day,  the  compliment  of  say- 
yilig,  that  if  He  had  not  already  created  heaven,  He  would  have 
done  so  for  her  sake  alone." 

Some  of  her  '  Memorable  Relations '  are  among  the  most 
curious  examples  on  record  of  the  materialization  of  spiritual 
truth.  With  all  the  mystics,  she  dwells  much  on  the  doctrine 
of  Christ  in  us.  But  while  some  of  them  have  exaggerated  this 
truth  till  they  bury  under  it  all  the  rest,  and  others  have 
authenticated  by  its  plea  every  vagary  of  special  revelation,  in 
scarcely  any  does  it  assume  a  form  so  puerile  and  so  sen- 
suous as  with  St.  Theresa.  Repeatedly  does  she  exhort  re- 
ligious persons  to  imagine  Christ  as  actually  within  the  interior 
part  of  their  soul.  The  superstition  of  the  mass  contributed 
largely  in  her  case  to  render  this  idea  concrete  and  palpable. 
In  a  hymn,  composed  in  a  rapturous  inspiration  after  swallow- 
ing the  consecrated  wafer,  she  describes  God  as  her  prisoner." 
She  relates  in  the  following  passage  how  she  saw  the  figure  of 
Christ  in  a  kind  of  internal  looking-glass. 

'When  reciting  the  hours  one  day  with  the  nuns,  my  soul 
suddenly  lapsed  into  a  state  of  recollection,  and  appeared  to 
me  as  a  bright  mirror,  every  part  of  which,  back  and  sides,  top 
and  bottom,  was  perfectly  clear.  In  the  centre  of  this  was 
represented  to  me  Christ  our  Lord,  as  I  am  accustomed  to 
see  him.     I  seemed  to  see  him  in  all  the  parts  of  my  soul  also, 

'^'^   Vida,    pp.    198,    301,   209,    321.      parens    dixit  :    Coelum  nisi  creassem, 
This  last  communication  is  not  related      ob  te  solam  crearem. —  Vila   Teresice, 
by  herself :  we  have  it  on  the  authority      p.  41. 
of  Ribadeneira  : — Itidem  ei  rursus  ap- 

'7  Mas  causa  en  mi  tal  passion 
Ver  a'Dios  mi  prisionero 
Que  mu'ero  porque  no  muero.  ! 


c.  1.]  Visions.  163 

distinctly  as  in  a  mirror,  and  at  the  same  time  this  mirror  (I 
do  not  know  how  to  express  it)  was  all  engraven  in  the  Lord 
himself,  by  a  communication  exceeding  amorous  which  I  can- 
not describe.  I  know  that  this  vision  was  of  great  advantage 
to  me,  and  has  been  every  time  I  have  called  it  to  mind,  more 
especially  after  communion.  I  was  given  to  understand,  that 
when  a  soul  is  in  mortal  sin,  this  mirror  is  covered  with  a  great 
cloud,  and  grows  very  dark,  so  that  the  Lord  cannot  be  seen 
or  represented  in  us,  though  he  is  always  present  as  the  Author 
of  our  being.  In  heretics,  this  mirror  is  as  it  were  broken, 
which  is  much  worse  than  to  have  it  obscured.'" 

Here  the  siinpHcitas  and  nuditas  of  other  mystics  become  a 
kind  of  concrete  crystal,  inhabited  by  a  divine  miniature.  In 
a  Clara  de  Montfaucon,  this  sensuous  supra-naturalism  goes  a 
step  further,  and  good  Catholics  read  with  reverence,  how  a 
Lilliputian  Christ  on  the  cross,  with  the  insignia  of  the  passion, 
was  found,  on  a  post-morteni.  examination,  completely  formed 
inside  her  heart." 

Similar  in  its  character  was  a  vision  with  which  Theresa 
was  sometimes  favoured,  of  a  pretty  little  angel,  with  a  golden 
dart,  tipped  with  fire,  which  he  thrust  (to  her  intolerable  pain) 
into  her  bowels,  drawing  them  out  after  it,  and  when  thus 
eviscerated,  she  was  inflamed  with  a  sweet  agony  of  love  to 
God.=' 

A  multitude  more  of  such  favours  might  be  related  : — how 

's   J'ida,  cap.  xl.  p.  324  illinic  flagris,  virgis,  colutnna,  corona 

'^  The    biographers   of  the   saints  spinea  ;  atque  hasc  insignia  Dominicae 

differ  both  as  to  the  time  of  her  death  Passionis,  nervis  vahdis  durisque  con- 

(1308,  1299,  1393,  are  dates  assigned),  stabant. —  Vida  S.  Clares,  p.  161. 
and  as  to  the  number  and  nature  of         '-^  Vida,  cap.  xxi.x,  p.  213.     Speak- 

t he  miraculous  formations  discovered  ingofthedehcious  anguish,  she  .says  :— 

within   her  heart.     Ribadeneira's  ac-  No  es  dolor  corporal,  sine  espiritual, 

count  is  by  no  means  the  most  extra-  aunqueno  dexade  participarel  cuerpo 

vagant.     He  says  : — Aperto  ejus  corde  algo,   y  aun  harto.     Es  un  requiebro 

amplo  et  concavo,   eidem  repererunt  tan  suave   que   passa  entre   el   almo 

impressaDominicas  passionis  insignia,  y  Dios  que  suplico  yo  a  su  boudad 

nempe  crucifixum  cum  tribus  clavis,  lo  de  a  gustar  a  quien  pensare  que 

lancea,  spongia,  et  arundine  hinc,  et  miento. 

M  2 


164  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [c.  ix-. 

the  Lord  gave  her  a  cross  of  precious  stones — a  matchless 
specimen  of  celestial  jewellery  to  deck  his  bride  withal;  how, 
after  communion  one  day,  her  mouth  was  full  of  blood,  that 
ran  out  over  her  dress,  and  Christ  told  her  it  was  his  own — shed 
afresh,  with  great  pain,  to  reward  her  for  the  gratification  her 
devotion  had  afforded  him ;  how  (doubtless  in  imitation  of 
Catherine  of  Siena)  she  saw  and  heard  a  great  white  dove 
fluttering  above  her  head  :  and  how,  finally,  she  repays  the 
attentions  of  the  Jesuit  Borgia,  by  repeated  praises  of  the 
Order ;  by  recording  visions  of  Jesuits  in  heaven  bearing 
white  banners,— of  Jesuits,  sword  in  hand,  with  resplendent 
faces,  gloriously  hewing  down  heretics  ;  and  by  predicting  the 
great  things  to  be  accomplished  through  the  zeal  of  that  body.^* 
Enough  1 

-',   Vida,  cap.  xxxviii.  pp.  300,  301  ;  and  xl.  328. 


Note  to  page  159. 

The  dispute  which  agitated  the  Romish  Church  for  more  than  half  a 
century  (1670-1730),  concerning  the  Mistica  Ciudad  de  Dios,  attributed  to 
Maria  d'Agreda,  furnishes  a  striking  instance  in  proof  of  I  he  character  here 
ascribed  to  the  controversies  of  the  period.  This  monstrous  book  was  given  to 
tl;e  world  as  the  performance  of  a  Spanish  nun,  at  the  dictation  of  the  Virgin, 
or  of  God  ; — both  assertions  are  made,  and  the  difference  is  not  material.  Its 
object  is  to  establish,  by  pretended  special  revelation,  all  the  prerogatives  as- 
signed to  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  on  the  basis  of  her  Immaculate  Conception. 
It  is  replete  with  the  absurdities  and  indecencies  of  prurient  superstition. 
Dafresnoy  applies  to  it,  with  justice,  the  words  of  John  of  Salisbury,  — '  Erumpit 
impudens  et  in  facie  erubescentium  populorum  genialis  thori  revelat  et  denudat 
arcana.'  It  states  that  tiie  embryo  of  the  Virgin  was  formed  on  a  Sunday, 
seventeen  days  before  the  ordinary  time, — relates  how,  at  eighteen  months,  the 
infant  demands  a  nun's  liabit  from  St.  Anna,  of  the  colour  worn  by  the 
Franciscans, — how  she  sweeps  the  house,  and  has  nine  hundred  angels  to  wail 
upon  her.  The  partizans  of  the  book  maintained,  not  onl\-  that  the  work  itself 
•was  a  miracle  from  beginning  to  end,  but  that  its  translation  was  miraculous 
also, — a  French  nun  receiving  instantaneously  the  gift  of  the  .Spanish  tongue, 
that  these  disclosures  from  heaven  might  pass  the  Pyrenees.  Such  was  the 
mass  of  corruption  about  which  the  gadflies  and  the  '  shard-borne  beetles'  of 
the  Church  settled  in  contending  swarms.  This  was  the  book  on  w-hose  whole- 
someness  for  the  flock  of  Christ  his  Vicars  could  not  venture  to  decide — 
eventually,  rather  evading  reply  than  pronouncing  sentence.  No  such  scruple 
concerning  the  unwholesomeness  of  the  Bible. 

The  Abbe    Dufresnoy  handles  the  question  broadly,  but  most  of  the  com- 
batants  are  furious,  this  side  or  that,  from  some  small   party  motive.     Tlie 


c.  I.]  Visions.  165 

French  divines  censure  the  book,  for  fear  it  should  encourage  Quietism — their 
great  bugbear  at  that  time.  The  Spanish  ecclesiastics,  jealous  of  the  honour 
done  their  countrywoman,  retorted  with  a  Ceiisiira  Ceiisitr<r.  But  about  the 
habit  the  battle  \v;is  hottest.  Every  Carmelite  must  reject  the  book  with 
indignation,  for  had  they  not  always  believed,  on  the  best  authority,  that  the 
Virgin  wore  a  dress  of  their  colour?  The  Franciscans  again,  and  the  religious 
of  St.  Clare,  would  defend  it  as  eagerly,  fordid  not  its  pages  authorize  anew 
from  heaven  their  beloved  ashen  hue?  .Again,  did  not  these  revelations  repre- 
sent the  .Almighty  as  adopting  tlie  Scotist  doctrine?  On  this  great  question,  of 
course,  Scotist  and  Thomist  would  fight  to  the  death.  Some  account  of  the  contro- 
versy, and  an  examination  of  the  book,  will  be  found  in  Dufresnoy,  Traiti 
Historiijiie  ct  Dogmatiquc  sur  les  Apparitions,  hs  Visions  et  les  Revelations 
patticiiliercs,  torn.  Ii.  chap.  xi.  (1751). 

The  same  spirit  betrays  itself  in  the  instance  of  Molinos.  Even  after  he  had 
written  his  Giiida  Spirit iialc,  he  was  patronized  by  the  Jesuits  because  he  had 
employed  his  pen  against  Jansenism,  and  the  Franciscans  approved  his  book, 
while  the  Dominicans  rejected  it,  because  he  had  delighted  the  one  party  and 
disgusted  the  other  by  speaking  somewhat  disparagingly  of  Thomas  Aquinas. 


CHAPTER  11. 

Indeed,  when  persons  have  been  long  softened  with  the  continual  droppings 
of  leligion,  and  their  spirits  made  timorous  and  apt  for  impression  by  the 
assiduity  of  prayer,  and  perpetual  alarms  of  death,  and  the  continual  dyings  of 
mortification, — the  fancy,  which  is  a  very  great  instrument  of  devotion,  is  kept 
continually  warm,  and  in  a  disposition  and  aptitude  to  take  fire,  and  to  flame 
out  in  great  ascents  ;  and  when  they  suffer  transportations  beyond  the  burdens 
and  support  of  reason,  they  suffer  they  know  not  what,  and  call  it  what  they 
please.  —J  EREMY  Taylok. 

I.  Saint  Theresa — (continued). 
\  A  T^HAT  disinterested  love  is  to  the  mysticism  of  Fene'lon, 
that  is  supernatural  passive  prayer  to  the  mysticism  of 
St,  Theresa.  She  writes  to  describe  her  experience  in  the 
successive  stages  of  prayer ;  to  distinguish  them,  and  to  lay 
down  directions  for  those  who  are  their  subjects.  She  pro- 
fesses no  method  whereby  souls  may  be  conducted  from  the 
lowest  to  the  highest  degree.  On  the  contrary,  she  warns 
all  against  attempting  to  attain,  by  their  own  efforts,  that  bliss- 
ful suspension  of  the  powers  which  she  depicts  in  colours  so 
glowing.  Unlike  Dionysius,  she  counsels  no  efibrt  to  denude 
the  soul  of  thought :  she  does  not,  with  Tauler,  bid  the  mystic 
laboriously  sink  into  the  ground  of  his  being.  She  is  em- 
phatically a  Quietist ;  quite  as  much  so  as  Molinos,  far  more 
so  than  Fenelon.  Spiritual  consolation  and  spiritual  desertion 
are  to  be  alike  indifferent.  By  a  singular  inconsistency,  while 
tracing  out  the  way  of  perfection,  she  forbids  the  taking  of  a 
step  in  that  path.^     You  will  be  borne  along,  she  would  say,  if 

'    Vida,    pp.    71   and    75.     In   the  obrar  con  el,  porque  nos  quedaremos 

latter  passage,  Theresa  says  expressly  :  bouos  y  frios,   y  ni  haremos  lo  uno  ni 

— En  la  mysticaTeologia,  que  comence  lo  otro.     Que  quando  el  Seiior  le  sus 

a  dezir,    pierde    de  obrar  el  entendi-  pende,   y  haze  parar,  dale  de  que  se 

miento,  porque  le  suspende  Dios,  como  espante,  y  en  que  se  ocupe,  y  que  sin 

despues  declarare  mas,  si  siipiere,  y  el  discurrir  entienda  mas  en  un  credo  que 

me  diere  para  el  lo  su  favor.  I'resumir,  nosotros  podemos  entendir  con  todas 

ni  pensar  de  suspenderle  nosotros,  es  nuestras  diligencias  de  tierra  en  mu- 

lo  que  digo  no  se  haga,  ni  se  dexe  de  chos  anos. 


C.  2.] 


The  Four  Degrees  of  Prayer.  167 


you  wait,  as  far  as  is  fitting.  Her  experience  receives  its  com- 
plexion, and  some  of  her  terminology  is  borrowed  from  the 
Lives  of  the  Saints.  Of  the  past  career  of  Mystical  Theology 
she  is  utterly  ignorant.  She  hears,  indeed,  of  a  certain  tuiie- 
honoured  division  of  the  mystical  process  into  Purgative, 
Illuminative,  and  Unitive  ;  but  she  does  not  adopt  the  scheme. 
The  Platonic  and  philosophic  element  is  absent  altogether  from 
her  mysticism.  Her  metaphysics  are  very  simple:— the  soul 
has  three  powers— Understanding,  Memory,  and  Will.  Now 
one,  now  another,  now  all  of  these,  are  whelmed  and  silenced 
by  the  incoming  flood  of  Divine  communication. 

In  addition  to  sundry  chapters  in  her  Life  on  the  various 
kinds  of  prayer,  she  has  left  two  treatises,  The  Way  of  Perfection 
(Camino  de  Perfecion)  and  The  Castle  of  the  ^^/^/ (Castillo 
Interior)— verbose,  rambling,  full  of  repetitions.  For  the  con- 
ventual  mind  there  is  no  rotation  of  crops  ;  and  the  barrenness 
which  hmits  such  monotonous  reproduction  supervenes  very 
soon.  From  these  sources,  then,  we  proceed  to  a  brief  sum- 
mary of  her  theopathy. 

There  are  in  her  scale  four  degrees  of  prayer.  The  first  is 
Simple  Mental  Prayer,— kxvtn^,  inward,  self-withdrawn ;  not 
exclusive  of  some  words,  nor  unaided  by  what  the  mystics 
called  discursive  acts,  i.e.,  the  consideration  of  facts  and 
doctrines  prompting  to  devotion.^  In  this  species  there  is 
nothing  extraordinary.     No  mysticism,  so  far. 

Second  Degree:— T:^^  Prayer  of  Quiet  called  also  Pure 
Contemplation.  In  this  state  the  Will  is  absorbed,  though  the 
Understanding  and  Memory  may  still  be  active  in  an  ordinary 
way.  Thus  the  nun  may  be  occupied  for  a  day  or  two  in  the 
usual  religious  services,  in  embroidering  an  altar-cloth,  or  dust- 
ing a  chapel  j  yet  without  the  Will  being  engaged.  That  faculty 
is  supposed  to  be,  as  it  were,  bound  and  taken  up  in  God. 
This  stage  is  a  supernatural  one.     Those  who  are  conscious  of 


1 68  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

it  are  to  beware  lest  they  suffer  the  unabsorbed  faculties  to 
trouble  them.  Yet  they  should  not  exert  themselves  to  pro- 
tract this  'recollection.'  They  should  receive  the  wondrous 
sweetness  as  it  comes,  and  enjoy  it  while  it  lasts,  absolutely 
passive  and  tranquil.  The  devotee  thus  favoured  often 
dreads  to  move  a  limb,  lest  bodily  exertion  should  mar  the  tran- 
quillity of  the  soul.  But  happiest  are  those  who,  as  in  the 
case  just  mentioned,  can  be  Marys  and  Marthas  at  the  same 
time." 

Third  V^^c^y.^:— The  Prayer  of  Union,  called  also  Perfect 
Co7itemplation.  In  this  prayer,  not  the  Will  only,  but  the 
Understanding  and  Memory  also,  are  swallowed  up  in  God. 
These  powers  are  not  absolutely  inactive  ;  but  we  do  not  work 
them,  nor  do  we  know  how  they  work.  It  is  a  kind  of  celes- 
tial frenzy — 'a  sublime  madness,'  says  Theresa.  In  such  a 
transport  she  composed  her  ecstatic  hymn,  without  the  least 
exercise  of  the  understanding  on  her  part.  At  this  stage  the 
contemplatist  neither  thinks  nor  feels  as  a  human  being.  The 
understanding  is  stunned  and  struck  dumb  with  amazement. 
The  heart  knows  neither  why  it  loves,  nor  what.  All  the  func- 
tions of  the  mind  are  suspended.  Nothing  is  seen,  heard,  or 
known.  And  wherefore  this  sudden  blank?  That  for  a  brief 
space  (which  seems  always  shorter  than  it  really  is)  the  Living 
God  may,  as  it  were,  take  the  place  of  the  unconscious  spirit- 
that  a  divine  vitality  may  for  a  moment  hover  above  the  dead 
soul,  and  then  vanish  without  a  trace ;  restoring  the  mystic  to 
humanity  again,  to  be  heartened  and  edified,  perhaps  for 
years  to  come,  by  the  vague  memory  of  that  glorious  nothing- 
ness.' 

Some  simple  nun  might  ask,  '  How  do  you  know  that  God 
did  so  plenarily  enter  into  you,  if  you  were  conscious  of  nothing 
whatever  ?' 

-  See  Note  on  p.  175. 
»  Vida,  <:ap.  xvii.   and  Castillo  Interior,  Moradas  Quintas,  cap.  i. 


2  1  The  Four  Degrees  of  Prayer.  169 


'  My  daughter,'  replies  the  saint,  '  I  know  it  by  an  infallible 
certainty  {una  certidtwibre)  that  God  alone  bestows.'* 

After  this  nothing  remains  to  be  said. 

Fourth  Degree: — The  Prayer  of  Rapture,  or  Ecstasy.  This 
estate  is  the  most  privileged,  because  the  most  unnatural  of  all. 
The  bodily  as  well  as  mental  powers  are  sunk  in  a  divine 
stupor.  You  can  make  no  resistance,  as  you  may  possibly,  to 
some  extent,  in  the  Prayer  of  Union.  On  a  sudden  your 
breath  and  strength  begin  to  fail ;  the  eyes  are  involuntarily 
closed,  or,  if  open,  cannot  distinguish  surrounding  objects ;  the 
hands  are  rigid  ;  the  whole  body  cold. 

Alas  !  what  shall  plain  folk  do  among  the  rival  mystics  ! 
Swedenborg  tells  us  that  bodily  cold  is  the  consequence  of  de- 
fective faith  :  Theresa  represents  it  as  the  reward  of  faith's  most 
lofty  exercise. 

Were  you  reading,  meditating,  or  praying,  previous  to  the 
seizure,  the  book,  the  thought,  the  prayer,  are  utteily  forgotten. 
For  that  troublesome  little  gnat,  the  memory  {esta  maraposilla 
importuna  de  la  memoria),  has  burnt  her  wings  at  the  glory. 
You  may  look  on  letters — you  cannot  read  a  word  ;  hear  speech 
— you  understand  nothing.  You  cannot  utter  a  syllable,  for 
the  strength  is  gone.  With  intense  delight,  you  find  that  all 
your  senses  are  absolutely  useless — your  spiritual  powers  in- 
operative in  any  human  mode.  The  saint  is  not  quite  certain 
whether  the  understanding,  in  this  condition,  understands  ;  but 
she  is  sure  that,  if  it  does,  it  understands  without  understand- 
ing, and  that  its  not  understanding  cannot  be  understood. 
Time  of  this  beatific  vacuum, — very  long,  if  half  an  hour ; 
though  obviously  a  difticult  point  to  decide,  as  you  have  no 
senses  to  reckon  by. 

Remarkable  were  the  effects  of  the  rapture  on  the  body  of 
the  saint.     An  irrepressible  lifting  force  seemed  to  carry  her  off 

■•  Castillo  Interior,  p.  580. 


tfo  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

her  feet  (they  preserve  the  right  foot  in  Rome  to  this  day) :  it 
was  the  swoop  of  an  eagle  ;  it  was  the  grasp  of  a  giant.  In 
vain,  she  tells  us,  did  she  resist.  Generally  the  head,  some- 
times the  whole  body,  was  supernaturally  raised  into  the  air  ! 
On  one  occasion,  during  a  sermon  on  a  high  day,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  several  ladies  of  quality,  the  reckless  rapture  took  her. 
For  in  vain  had  she  prayed  that  these  favours  might  not  be 
made  public.  She  cast  herself  on  the  ground.  The  sisters 
hastened  to  hold  her  down ;  yet  the  upward  struggling  of  the 
divine  potency  was  manifest  to  all.  Imagine  the  rush  of  the 
sisterhood,  the  screams  of  the  ladies  of  quality,  the  pious 
ejaculations  from  the  congregation, — watching  that  knot  of 
swaying  forms,  wresthng  with  miracle,  and  the  upturned  eyes, 
or  open-mouthed  amazement,  of  the  interrupted  preacher  !* 

The  state  of  rapture  is  frequently  accompanied  by  a  certain 
*  great  pain'  {gran  pena),  a  sweet  agony  and  delicious  torment, 
described  by  Theresa  in  language  as  paradoxical  as  that  which 
Juliet  in  her  passion  applies  to  the  lover  who  has  slain  her 

cousin — 

Beautiful  tyrant !  fiend  angelical ! 
Dove-feathered  raven  !  wolfish-ravening  lamb  ! 

After  some  two  or  three  hours'  endurance  of  this  combined 
spiritual  and  corporeal  torture,  the  sisters  would  find  her  almost 
without  pulsation,  the  bones  of  the  arms  standing  out  {las 
canillas  vmy  abiertas),  her  hands  stiff"  and  extended  :  in  every 
joint  were  the  pains  of  dislocation :  she  was  apparently  at  the 
point  of  death.'' 

This  mysterious  *  pain'  is  no  new  thing  in  the  history  of 
mysticism.  It  is  one  of  the  trials  of  mystical  initiation.  It  is 
the  depth  essential  to  the  superhuman  height.  With  St. 
Theresa,  the  physical  nature  contributes  towards  it  much  more 
largely  than  usual ;  and  in  her  map  of  the  mystic's  progress 

^  See  second  Note  on  p.  175.  ^  Sec  Note  on  p.  176. 


c.  2.]       Sufferings  of  the  Mystic,  bodily  and  mental.      1 7 1 

iTis  located  at  a  more  advanced  period  of  the   journey.     St. 
Francis  of  Assisi  lay  sick  for  two  years  under  the  preparatory 
miseries.     Catharine  of  Siena  bore  five  years  of  privation,  and 
was  tormented  by  devils  beside.     For  five  years,  and  yet  again 
for  more  than  three  times  five,  Magdalena  de  Pazzi  endured 
such    'aridity,'    that   she   believed   herself  forsaken    of   God. 
Balthazar  Alvarez  suftered  for  sixteen  years  before  he   earned  , 
his  extraordinary  illumination.'     Theresa,  there  can  be  little 
doubt,  regarded  her  fainting-fits,  hysteria,  cramps,  and  nervous 
seizures,  as  divine  visitations.     In  their  action  and  reaction, 
body  and  soul  were  continually  injuring  each  other.      The  ex- 
citement of  hallucination  would  produce  an  attack  of  her  dis- 
order, and  the  disease  again  foster  the  hallucination.    Servi- 
tude whether  of  mind  or  body,  introduces  maladies  unknown 
to    freedom.      Elephantiasis    and    leprosy-the    scourge    of 
modern  Greece-were    unknown    to  .ancient    Hellas.      The 
cloister    breeds   a  family   of    mental   distempers,    elsewhere 

unheard  of  j    •       i     . 

The  mystics  generally,  from  Dionysius  downward,  inculcate 
earnest  endeavours  to  denude  the  mind  of  images,  to  suspend 
its  reflex  or  discursive  operations.     Theresa  goes  a  step  farther, 
and  forbids  her  pupils  to  strive  towards  such  a  state.     If  such 
a  favour  is  to  be  theirs,  it  will  be  wrought  in  them  as  by  enchant- 
ment     Passivity  here  reaches  its  extreme.     On  this  ground  a 
charge  of  Quietism  might  have  been  brought  against  Theresa 
with  more  justice  than  against  Fenelon,  or  even  Molinos.    The 
Guida  Spirituale  of  Molinos  was  designed  to  assist  the  mystic 
in  attaining  that  higher  contemplation  of  God  which  rises  above 
the  separate  consideration  of  particular  attributes.      This  in- 
distinct and  dazzled  apprehension  of  all  the  perfections  together 
is  the   very   characteristic   of    Theresa's   Prayer  of  Rapture 
Molinos  cites  her  very  words.     The  introduction  to  his  con- 
7  See  Note  on  p.  177. 


172  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

demned  manual  contains  some  very  strong  expressions.  But 
nothing  of  his  own  is  so  extravagant  as  the  passages  fiom 
Dionysius  and  Theresa. 

Who  then  is  the  Quietist — Molinos  or  Theresa?  Both  write 
books  to  mark  out  the  mystic's  pathway.  Theresa  adds  the 
caution,  '  Sit  still'  Manifestly,  then,  the  excess  of  passivity 
lies  with  her.  The  oars  of  Molinos  are  the  sails  of  Theresa, — 
erected,  like  the  broad  paddles  of  the  Indian,  to  catch  tiie 
breeze,  and  urge  onward  the  canoe  without  an  effort.'  But  the 
followers  of  Molinos  were  found  guilty  of  neglecting  cere- 
monial gewgaws  for  devout  abstraction, — of  escaping  those 
vexatious  observances  so  harassing  to  patients  and  so  lucrative 
to  priests.  So  Rome  condemned  him,  and  not  Theresa,  as  the 
Quietist  heretic.  For  his  head  the  thundercloud  ;  for  hers  the 
halo.' 

Here  tlie  reader  may  naturally  ask,  '  How  do  these  mystics 
reconcile  such  extremes  of  abstraction  and  such  extremes  of 
sensuousness  ?  If  the  state  above  symbols  and  above  reason- 
ing— above  all  conscious  mental  operations,  distinctions,  or 
figures,  be  so  desirable  (as  they  all  admit), — must  not 
crucifixes,  images,  and  pictures  of  saints,  yea,  the  very 
conception  of  our  Saviour's  humanity  itself,  be  so  many 
hindrances  ?' 

To  this  Theresa  would  answer,  '  I  thought  so  once.  But  I 
was  happily  led  to  see  my  error  ere  long.  In  the  Prayer  of 
Rapture,  all  recognition  of  Christ's  humanity — as,  indeed,  of 
everything  else — is  doubtless  obliterated.  But,  then,  we  do  not 
effect  this.  There  is  no  eftbrt  on  our  part  to  remove  from  our 
minds  the  conception  of  Christ's  person.  The  universal 
nescience  of  Rapture  is  supernaturally  wrought,  without  will  of 

**  See  Note  on  p.  178.  fully  in  an  Appendix  to  the  English 

"  See  the  account  of  tlie  proceed-  translation  of  Madame  Guyon's  Auto- 

ings  against  Molinos  and  his  followers,  biography. 

in  Arnold,  th.  iii.,  c.  xvii.,  and  more 


c.  2.]  Christ's  Hinnanity.  173 

ours.""  John  of  the  Cross,  who  carries  his  negative,  imageless 
abstraction  so  far,  is  fain  (as  a  good  son  of  the  Church)  to  in- 
sert a  special  chapter  in  commendation  of  images,  pictures,  and 
the  sensuous  aids  to  devotion  generally.  It  was  unfortunate 
for  the  flesh  and  blood  of  Molinos  that  he  failed  to  do  the 
same." 

In  the  seventeenth  century  the  Quietists  were  accused  of  re- 
jecting the  idea  of  Christ's  humanity,  as  a  corporeal  image 
which  would  only  mar  their  supersensuous  contemplation  of 
abstract  deity.  Bossuet  attempted  to  fasten  the  charge  on 
Fenelon  :  it  was  one  of  the  hottest  points  of  their  controversy. 
Fenelon  completely  clears  himself.  From  the  evidence  within 
my  reach,  I  am  disposed  to  acquit  Molinos  also.^'^ 

Theresa  relates  with  peculiar  pleasure  those  passages  in  the 
marvellous  history  of  the  soul  in  which  surpassing  heights  of 
knowledge,  or  of  virtue,  are  supposed  to  be  realized,  on  the 
instant,   without  processes   or   media.      No  transition   is  too 

'0  Vida,  chap.  x.\ii.  : — Qiiando  Dios  cette  connaissance  confuse  et  surnatu- 

quiere  suspender  todas  las  potencias  relle,    neanmoins    il    ne    faut    jamais 

(como  en   los  modos  de  oracion  que  n^gliger   expr^s   la   representation  de 

cjuedan  dichos  henios  visto)  claro  esta  cette  adorable  humanite  ni  en  effacer 

que  aunque  no  queramos  se  quita  esta  le  souvenir  ou  lidee,    ni    en    affaiblir 

presencia Mas    que    nosotros  la  connaissance. — [.a  Mo)ilie  du  Mont 

de  mafia  y  con  cuydado  nos  acostum-  Cartiiel,  liv.  iir.  chap.  I.     I  have  used 

bremos  a  no  procurar  con  todas  nues-  the    French  translation   of  his  works, 

Iras  fuercas  traer   delante  siempre  (y  edited  by  the  Abbe  Migne,  in  his/>/i^//t'- 

pluguiesse   al    .Sefior  fuesse    siempre)  ikeqiic  UnivcrsclU  du  ClergL     i845- 

esta  sacratissima  humanidad  esto  digo  'I'he  chapter  on  images  is  the  four- 

i|ue  no  me  parece  bien,  y  que  es  andar  teenth  of  the  same  book, 

el  alma  en  ayre,  como  dizen  :  porque  Father    Berthier    [Lettres    siir    /cs 

parece  no  trae  arrimo,  por  mucho  que  CEuvrcs  dc  S.  Jean  de  la  Croix)  at- 

la  parezca  anda  Uenade  Dios. — P.  154.  tempts  to  show  the  difference  between 

"  The  words  of  John  are  : — Mais  il  the  mysticism  of  his  author  and  that  of 

faut  remarquer  que  quand  je  dis  qu'il  the  false  mystics.    He  succeeds  only  ir. 

est  apropos  d'oublier  les  especes  et  les  pointing  out  a  manifest  disagreement 

connai=sances  des  objets  materiels,  je  between    the   opinions    of   John    aiul 

ne  prt^tends  nullement  parler  de  Jesus-  those  which  he  himself  believes  (or  yiw- 

Christ    ni    de    son    humanite   sacree.  tends  to  believe)  are  those  of  Quietism 

Quoique  I'amen'en  ait  pas  quelquefois  — the  accusations,  in  fact,  .against  the 

la  mdmoire  dans  sa  plus  haute  contem-  Quietists — the  exaggerated  conclusions 

jjlation  et  dans  le  simple  regard  tie  Li  drawn  by  their  enemies. 

divinite,  parceque  Dieu  eleve  lesprit  a  ''•'  See  Note  on  p.  180. 


174  T^^^  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix. 

violent  for  her  faith.  She  is  impatient  of  all  natural  growth ; 
will  acknowledge  no  conditions  of  development.  The  sinner 
turns  into  a  seraph  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  The  splendid 
symmetry  of  all  the  Christian  virtues  can  arise,  like  the  palace 
of  Aladdin,  in  a  single  night.  In  one  particular  kind  of 
Rapture — the  Flight  of  the  Soul  {Biielo  del  Espiritu),  the  soul 
is  described  by  her  as,  in  a  manner,  blown  up.  It  is  discharged 
heavenwards  by  a  soundless  but  irresistible  explosive  force 
from  beneath,  swift  as  a  bullet  {con  la  presteza  que  sale  la  pelota 
de  un  arcabuz).  Thus  transported  the  spirit  is  taught  without 
the  medium  of  words,  and  understands  mysteries  which  long 
years  of  search  could  not  even  have  surmised.^* 

Visions  are  intellectual  or  representative.  The  former  is  a 
consciousness  of  spiritual  proximity,  indescribable,  unaccom- 
panied by  any  appearances.  The  representative  or  miaginative 
vision,  presents  some  definite  form  or  image." 

There  is  a  kind  of  supernatural  tuition,  she  tells  us,  in  which 
the  Lord  suddenly  places  in  the  centre  of  the  soul,  what  he 
wishes  it  to  understand,  without  words  or  representation  of 
any  kind.  This  privilege  Theresa  compares  very  truly  to  an 
ability  to  read  without  having  learnt  letters,  or  to  nutriment 
derived  from  food   without   eating   it."     In   other   instances 

"^^  Castillo  Interior.  Morada\-i.,c.v.  ter,    contravenes   expressly   the    three 

'^  76id.,  capp.  viii.,  ix.,  x.  criteria,  afterwards  laid  down  by  Fen^- 

1^  Vida,   cap.  xxvii.,    pp.    191,    &c.  Ion,  to  distinguish  the  true  mysticism 

Here    the    supernatural    illumination  from  the  false.     The  genuine  contem- 

without  means  or  mode,  longed  for  by  plation  according  to  him  is  not  purely 

so  many  mystics,  is  professedly  realised.  infused,   not    purely    gratuitous   (i.e., 

Molinos  puts  forward  no  claim  so  dan-  without  correspondence  on  the  part  of 

gerous  as  this  special  revelation.    The-  the  soul  to  the  grace  vouchsafed),  not 

resa  is  confident  that  this  most  inex-  miraculous.     With  Theresa  this  form 

plicable  species   of  communication  is  of  passive  contemplation  is  all  three, 

beyond  the  reach  of  any  delusion,  and  So  much  more  Quietist  was  the  mysti- 

inaccessible   altogether  to  the   father  cism  authorised  than  the  mysticism  con- 

oflies.     Her  language  concerning  the  demned  by  Rome.     See  Afaximes  des 

absolute  passivity  of  those  who  are  its  Saints,  art.  xxix.  What  F^n^lon  rejects 

subjects,   is  as  strong  as  it  could  be.  in  the  foUowingsection  as  false,  answers 

No  Quietist  could  push  it  farther.      It  exactly   to   the   position    of   Theresa. 

SO  l)appens  that  the  saint,  in  his  chap-  Fendon  supports  his  more  refined  and 


c.  2.]  Supernatural  Tuition .  175 

certain  efficacious  words  (the  *  substantial  words'  of  John),  are 
spoken  divinely  in  the  centre  of  the  soul,  and  immediately  pro- 
duce there  the  actual  effects  proper  to  their  significance/'^  If 
something  is  thus  inwardly  spoken  about  humility,  for  example, 
the  subject  of  such  words  is  that  moment  completely  humble. 
So  the  soul  is  supplied  with  virtues  as  the  tables  volantes  of 
Louis  XV.  with  viands, — a  spring  is  touched,  and  presto !  the 
table  sinks  and  re-appears — spread. 

sober  mysticism   by  the  authority  of  their  fantastic   extremes,    and   clioice 

preceding  mystics.     He  finds  among  wonders,     find    a    place    with     him 

them   ample  credentials,    and   indeed  rather  as  so  much  religious  tradition, 

more  than  he  wants.     Their  extrava-  or  extraordinary  history,  than  as  form- 

gances  he  tacitly  rejects.     Not   that,  ing  any  essential  part  of  the  mysticism 

as  a  good  Catholic,   he  could  venture  he  himself  represents  and  commends, 

openly  to  impugn  their  statements,  but  "'  Vida,  cap.  xxv. 


Note  to  page  168. 

Theresa  compares  the  four  degrees  of  prayer  to  four  ways  of  watering  the 
soul-garden  :  the  first,  todrawing  wateroutof  a  well  ;  the  second,  to  raising  it  by 
means  of  a  rope  with  buckets  (less  laborious  and  more  plentiful)  ;  the  third,  to 
the  introduction  of  a  rivulet ;  and  the  fourth,  to  a  copious  shower,  whereby  God 
Himself  abundantly  waters  the  garden,  without  any  effort  of  ours. — Cap.  xi. 
p.  6-j.  The  second  degree  is  fully  described  in  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  her  life, 
and  in  the  thirty-first  of  the  Camino  dc  Perfecw». 

The  difference  between  the  first  degree  and  the  three  others  is  simply  that 
generic  distinction  between  Meditation  and  Contemplation  with  which  the 
earlier  mystics  have  made  us  familiar.  Theresa's  second,  third,  and  fourth 
degrees  of  prayer  are  her  more  loose  and  practical  arrangement  of  the  species 
of  contemplation.  She  identifies  Mystical  Theology  witli  Prayer,  employing 
the  latter  term  in  a  very  comprehensive  sense.  So  also  does  St.  Francis  de 
Sales  : — En  somme,  I'oraison  et  theologie  mystique  n'est  autre  chose  qu'une 
conversation  par  laquelle  lame  s'entretient  amoureusement  avec  Dieu  de  sa 
tres-aimable  bonte  pour  s'unir  et  joindre  k  icelle. —  Traiti  de  V Amour  de  Dieu, 
livre  vi.  cliap.  i.  He  likens  the  soul  in  the  prayer  of  Quiet  when  the  will  is  en- 
gaged but  the  other  powers  free,  to  an  infant  which  can  see  and  hear  and  move 
its  arms,  while  adhering  to  the  breast.  The  babe  which  removes  its  little  mouth 
from  the  bosom  to  see  where  its  feet  are,  resembles  those  who  are  distracted 
in  the  prayer  of  Quiet  by  self-consciousness,  and  disturb  their  repose  by 
curiosity  as  to  what  the  mind  is  doing  the  while. — Ibid,  cliap.  x. 

Note  to  page  170. 

Vida,  capp.  xviii.  xix. : — Estandoassi  el  alma  buscandoa  E)ios,  siente  con'un  de- 
leyte  grandissimo  y  suave  casi  desfallecerse  toda  con  una  manera  de  desmayo,  que 
le  vafaltando  el  huelgo,  y  todas  las  fuer9ascorporales,  demaneraque  sino  es  con 
mucha  pena,  no  puede  aun  menearlas  manos  ;  los  ojos  se  le  cierran  sin  querer, 
los  cerrar,  y  si  los  tiene  abiertos  no  vee  casi  nada  ;  ni  si  lee,  acierta  a  dezir  letra  iii 


176  TJie  Spanish  Mystics.  [c.  ix* 

casi  atinaa  conocerlabien ;  vee  que  ay  letra,  mas  coino  el  entendimiento  no  ayuda, 
no  sabe  leer,  aunque  quiera.  Oye,  mas  no  entiende  lo  que  oye.  Assi  que  de  los 
sentidos  no  se  aproveclia  nada,  sino  es  para  no  la  acabar  de  dexar  a  su  plazer,  y 
assi  antes  la  danan.  Hablar,  es  por  de  mas,  que  no  atina  a  formar  palabra,  ni 
ay  fuerfa  ya  que  atinasse,  para  poderla  pronunciar  :  porque  toda  la  fuerfa  ex- 
terior se  pierde,  y  se  aumenia  en  las  del  alma,  para  mejor  poder  gozar  de 
su  gloria.  El  deleyte  exterior  que  se  siente  es  grande,  y  muy  conocido. — 
P.  118. 

As  to  the  elevation  of  the  body  in  the  air  during  rapture,  it  is  common 
enough  in  the  annals  of  Romish  saintship,  and  a  goodly  page  might  be  filled 
witli  the  mere  names  of  the  worthies  who  are  represented  as  overcoming  not 
only  sin,  but  gravitation.  Maria  d'Agreda  was  seen,  times  without  number, 
poised  on  nothing  in  a  recumbent  attitude,  in  an  equilibrium  so  delicate,  that 
by  blowing,  even  at  a  distance,  she  was  made  to  waft  this  way  or  that,  like  a 
feather.  Dominic  of  Jesu  Maria  had  the  honour  of  being  blown  about, 
while  in  this  soap-Vnibble  condition,  by  the  heretic-slaying  breath  of  Philip  II. 
Gorres  furnishes  a  long  list  of  examples,  and  believes  them  all ;  Die  Christlirhe 
Mystik,  Buch.  v.  iv.  §  2. 

It  is  curious  to  see  hov^^  Francis  de  Sales,  who  follows  Theresa  somewhat 
closely  in  his  chapter  on  the  Prayer  of  Quietude,  grows:  wisely  cautious  as  lie 
treats  of  Rapture,  softens  down  extravagance,  avoids  theurgy,  and  keeps  to 
piety,  and  admirably  substitutes  practical  devotion  for  the  unintelligibility  and 
the  materialism  of  the  Spanish  saint.  He  enumerates  three  kinds  of  Rapture 
or  ecstasy  (ravissement  and  extase  are  identical), — that  of  the  intellect,  tiiat 
of  the  affection,  and  that  of  action,— manifested,  respectively,  by  glory,  by 
fervour,  and  by  deed, ^realized  by  admiration,  by  devotion,  aud  by  operation. 
On  the  last  he  dwells  most  fully  ;  on  that  he  concentrates  all  his  exhortations. 
To  live  without  profaneness,  he  says,  without  falsehood,  without  robbery,  to 
honour  parents,  to  obey  law,  to  reverence  God, — this  is  to  live  according  to  the 
natural  reason  of  man.  But  to  embrace  poverty,  to  hail  reproach  and  persecu- 
tion as  blessings,  and  martyrdom  as  joy,  by  unceasing  self-renunciation,  to  for- 
sake the  world,  surmount  its  opinion,  deny  its  rule, — this  is  to  live,  not  humanly, 
but  superhumanly  ; — to  live  out  of  ourselves  and  above  ourselves,  by  super- 
natural energy, — this  is  to  enjoy  the  noblest  ecstasy,  not  of  a  moment,  but  of  a 
life-time.  Many  saints  have  died  without  enjoying  ecstatic  trance — all  have 
lived  the  ecstatic  life. — Traits  de  l' Amour  de  Dieu,  livre  vii.  chapp.  iii.  and  vii. 

Note  to  page  170. 

This  pain  is  described  by  Theresa  in  the  twentieth  chapter  of  the  Life,  and 
in  the  Castillo  Inferior,  Morada,  vi.  capp.  i  and  2.  In  the  former  place  she 
gives  a  kind  of  rationale  thereof,  in  the  following  words  : — Parece  me  que  esta 
assi  el  alma,  que  ni  del  cielo  le  viene  consuelo,  ni  esta  en  el  ;  ni  de  la  tierra  le 
quiere,  ni  esta  en  ella  ;  sino  como  crucificada  entrc  el  cielo  y  la  tierra, 
padeciendo  sin  venirle  socorro  di  ningun  cabo.  Porque  el  que  le  viene  del  cielo 
(que  es  como  he  dicho  una  noticia  de  Dios  tan  admirable,  muy  sobre  todo  lo 
que  podemos  dessear)  es  para  mas  tormento,  porque  acreciento  el  deiseo  de 
manera  que  a  mi  parecer  la  gran  pena  algunas  vezes  quita  el  sentido,  sino  que 
dura  poco  sin  el.  Parecen  unos  transitos  de  la  meurte,  salvo  que  trae  consigo 
un  tan  contento  este  padecer,  que  no  se  yo  a  que  lo  comparar. — P.  135. 

The  Castillo  Interior  describes  the  mystic's  progress  under  the  emblem  of  a 
Castle,  divided  into  se\en  apartments;  the  inmost,  where  God  resides,  repre- 
senting the  centre  of  the  soul  (termed  the  apex  by  some  ;  the  Grotaid  by  others)  ; 
and  each  of  these  successive  abodes,  from  the  outermost  to  the  central,  corres- 
ponding to  the  advancing  stages  of  discipline  and  privilege  through  which  the 


V.  2.]  The  Sufferings  of  Mysiies.  177 

mystic  passes.     Tlie  liability  to  the  pain  in  question  supervenes  at  the  sixth 
apartment,  prior  to  the  last  and  most  glorious  stage  attainable  on  earth. 

\"ictor  (jelenius  of  Treves  (writing  1646)  lias  seven  degrees,  and  places  this 
stage  of  misery  and  privation  in  the  fourth,  as  the  transition  between  the 
human  and  superhuman  kinds  of  devotion.  It  is  the  painful  weaning-time,  wiu.-re- 
in  the  soul  passes  (in  an  agony  of  strange  bewilderment)  from  a  religion  which 
employs  the  faculties  we  possess,  to  that  which  is  operated  in  us  in  a  manner 
altogether  incomprehensible  and  divine.  Whatever  division  be  adopted,  such 
alone  is  the  legitimate  locality  for  this  portion  of  the  mystical  experience.  Here 
Gelenius  and  John  of  the  Cross  are  perfectly  agreed,  though  their  graduation 
and  nomenclature  are  different. 

Note  to  page  171. 

This  pain  is  the  '  pressura  interna'  of  Tauler :  the  'horrible  et  indicibile 
tormentum'  of  Catharine  of  Genoa  ;  the  '  purgatory'  of  Thomas  a  Jesu  ;  the 
'  languor  infernalis'  of  Harphius  ;  the  '  terrible  martyrium'  of  Maria  Vela,  the 
Cistercian;  the  '  divisio  naturae  ac  spiritus' of  Barbanson  ;  the  '  privation  worse 
than  heir  of  Angela  de  Foligni.  See  Card.  Bona's  I'ia  Coinpendii  ad  Deum, 
cap.  10.     Aiis^clct  de  Fulginio  Visiones,  cap.  xi.x. 

Tliese  sufferings  are  attributed  by  the  mystics  to  the  surpassing  nature  of  the 
tnuhs  manifested  to  our  finite  faculties  (as  the  sun-glare  pains  the  eye), — to  the 
anguish  involved  in  the  surrender  of  every  ordinary  religious  support  or  enioy- 
ment,  when  the  soul,  suspended  (as  Theresa  describes  it)  between  heaven  and 
earth,  can  derive  solace  from  neither, — to  the  intensity  of  the  aspirations 
awakened,  rendering  those  limitations  of  our  condition  here  which  detain  us 
from  God  an  intolerable  oppre-sion, — and  to  the  despair  by  which  the  soul  is 
tried,  being  left  to  believe  herself  forsaken  by  the  (iod  she  loves. 

On  this  subject  John  of  the  Cross  and  Theresa  are  most  extravagant.  In 
contrast  with  their  folly  stands  the  good  sense  of  Fenelon.  The  middle  ground 
is  occupied  by  the  comparative  moderation  of  Francis  de  Sales.  Tlie  privation 
described  by  John  is  preparatory  to  a  state  of  complete  de-humanization,  in 
whicli  we  shell!  know,  feel,  do,  nothing  in  the  mortal  manner,  as  our  whole 
nature  suffers  a  divine  transformation.  The  privation  of  which  Fenelon  speaks 
is  simply  a  refining  process,  to  purify  our  love  more  thoroughly  from  self.  Tlie 
causes  and  the  various  species  of  this  pain  are  detailed  at  length  by  John  of  the 
Cross  in  the  yuit  Obscure,  liv.  ii.  chapp.  v.  vi.  \ii. 

De  Sales  says  speaking  of  the  '  blessure  d'amour  :'  -  Mais,  Theotrine,  parlant 
de  I'amour  sacre,  il  y  a  en  la  practique  d'iceluy  une  sorte  de  blesseure  que  Dieu 
luy-nieme  faict  quelquesfois  pour  sa  souveraine  bonte,  comme  la  pressant  et 
solicitant  de  I'aymer  ;  et  lors  elle  s'eslance  de  force  comme  pour  voler  plus  haut 
vers  son  divin  object  ;  mais  demeurant  courte  parce  qu'elle  ne  pent  pas  tant 
aymer  comme    elle   desire,    o    Dieu  I    elle  sent    un    douleur    c|ui    n'a    point 

d'esgale La  voila  done  rudement  tourmentee  entre  la  violence  de  ses 

eslans  et  celle  de  son  impuissance. —  Traitc  dc  l Amour  de  Dieu,  liv.  vi.  ch.  .\iii. 

Theresa  declares  that  the  intensity  of  this  delicious  agony  is  such  as  frequently 
to  endanger  life.  —  Castillo  Int.  vi.  c.  xi. 

Francis  de  Sales,  in  whom  the  sufferings  in  question  assume  a  highly  senti- 
mental character,  adduces  instances  in  which  they  proved  fatal.  'I  he  soul, 
springing  forward  to  obey  the  attraction  of  the  Well-beloved,  sooner  than  be 
detained  by  the  body  amid  the  miseries  of  this  life,  tears  herself  away,  abandons 
it,  and  mounts  alone,  hke  a  lovely  little  dove,  to  the  bosom  of  her  celestial 
spouse.  St.  Theresa  herself,  he  says,  made  it  known,  after  her  departure,  that 
slie  died  of  an  impetuous  assault  of  love,  too  violent  for  nature  to  sustain. — 
Traite  dc  l' Amour  de  Dieu,  liv.  vii.  chapp  x.-xii. 

VOL.  II.  N 


17S  Tlie  Spanish  Ulystics.  [n.  ix. 

We  may  contrast  tlie  obscure  and  feverish  utterances  of  Theresa,  and  the 
nmorous  phraseology  of  De  Sales,  on  this  topic,  with  the  lucid  and  cautions 
language  of  Fenelon 

La  sainte  indifference,  qui  n'est  jamais  que  le  desinteressement  de  I'amour, 
devient  dans  les  plus  extremes  epreuves  ce  que  les  saints  mystiques  ont  nommo 
abandon,  c'est-a-dire,  que  Tame  desinteressee  s'abandonne  totalement  et  sans 
reserve  a  Dieu  pour  tout  ce  qui  regarde  son  interet  propre  ;  mais  elle  ne  renonce 
jamais  ni  a  aucune  des  choses  qui  interessent  la  gloire  et  lebon  plaisir  du  bien- 

aimd Cette  abnegation  de  nous-memes  n'est  que  pour  I'int^ret  propre, 

et  ne  doit  jamais  empecher  I'amour  ddsinteresse  que  nous  nous  devons  a  nous- 
memes  comme  au  prochain,  pour  I'amour  de  Dieu.  Les  Epreuves  extremes  ou 
cet  abandon  doit  etre  exercd  sont  les  tentations  par  lesquelles  Dieu  jaloux  veut 
purifier  I'amour,  ennelui  faisant  voir  aucune  ressourceni  aucune  esperance  pour 
son  interet  meme  dternel.  Ces  dpreuves  sont  representees  par  un  tres  grand 
nombre  des  saints  comme  un  purgatoire  terrible,    qui  pent  exempter  du  pur- 

gatoire  de  I'autre  vie  les  ames  qui  le  souffrent  avec  une  entiere  fidelite 

Ces  epreuves  ne  sont  que  pour  un  temps.  Plus  les  imes  y  sont  fideles  a  la 
grace  pour  se  laisser  purifier  de  tout  interet  propi'e  par  I'amour  jaloux,  plus 
ces  Epreuves  sont  courtes.  C'est  d'ordinaire  la  resistance  secrete  des  ames  a  la 
grace  sous  des  beaux  pretextes,  c'est  leur  effort  interess^  et  empressd  pour  re- 
tenir  les  appuis  sensibles  dont  Dieu  veut  les  priver,  qui  rend  leurs  Epreuves  si 
longues  et  si  douloureuses  :  car  Dieu  ne  fait  point  souffrir  sa  creature  pour  la 
faire  souffrir  sans  fruit,  ce  n'est  que  pour  la  purifier  et  pour  vaincre  ses  resis- 
tances.— Explic.  des  Maximes  des  Saints,  Art.  viii. 

Note  to  page  172. 

See  the  passage  already  cited  (page  166,  note),  where  Theresa  expressly  for- 
bids any  attempt  on  our  part  to  suspend  the  powers  of  the  mind.  Effort,  to 
produce  inaction  appears  to  her  a  contradiction  in  terms.  Yet  such  effort 
Dionysius  expressly  enjoins  ;  and,  indeed,  without  it,  how  can  the  swarming 
v.ords  or  images  that  float  about  the  mind  be  excluded  ?  The  'phantasmata 
irruentia,'  to  be  barred  out,  are  tlie  images  of  sensible  objects,  according  to  the 
old  theory  of  perception — the  'imagines  reruiu  sensibilium  et  corporearum.'  Bona 
expresses  the  spirit  of  the  old  Platonist  mysticism  in  the  Romish  Church,  when 
he  says,  '  Haec  omnia  abdicanda  et  extirpanda  prorsus  sunt,  ut  Deum  in- 
veniamus.' — P'ia  Compendii  ad  Deiim,  p.  26.  Theresa  is  quite  agreed  with  all 
the  mystics  as  to  the  previous  heart-discipline,  and  the  ascetic  process  essential 
to  the  higher  forms  of  contemplation. 

The  mystics  generally  rank  the  '  contemplatio  caliginosa'  much  above  the 
'  contemplatio  pura :'  the  more  indistinct  our  apprehensions,  tlie  more  divine. 
John  of  the  Cross  comes  next,  in  this  respect,  after  Dionysius.  Molinos  borrows 
liis  doctrine,  that  as  the  distance  between  the  Infinite  and  all  our  sensuotis 
images,  conclusions,  and  finite  conceptions  must  be  infinite  after  all,  such  things 
embarrass  rather  than  aid  our  contemplation.  But  even  he  does  not  soar  into  a 
darkness  so  absolute  as  that  of  Dionj-sius.  He  says  expressly,  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  his  Spiritual  Guide : — '  In  answer  to  the  objection  that  the  will  must  be 
inactive  where  no  clear  conception  is  given  to  the  imderstanding, — that  a  man 
cannot  love  what  he  can  take  no  cognizance  of,  my  reply  is  this  :  Although  the 
understanding  does  not  distinctively  recognise  certain  images  and  conceptions, 
by  a  discursive  act  or  mental  conclusion,  it  apprehends,  nevertheless,  by  a  dim 
and  comprehensive  faith.  And  though  this  knowledge  be  very  cloudy,  vague, 
and  general,  yet  it  is  far  more  clear  and  perfect  than  any  sensuous  or  scientific 
apprehensions  that  man  can  devise  in  this  life,  since  all  corporeal  images  must 


2.]  Conieuiptations.  179 


be  immeiisurably  remote  from  God. '  See  Arnold's  Kirchen-und-Ketzergcschichte, 
th.  III.  ch.  xvii.,  where  the  Introduction  is  inserted  entire. 

Theresa  also  admits  that  during  the  ecstatic  pain  the  soul  adores  no  particular 
attribute  of  God,  but,  as  it  were,  all  his  perfections  collectively.  Bien  entiende 
que  no  quiere  sino  a  su  Dios,  mas  no  ama  cosa  particular  del,  sino  todo  junto 
lo  quiere,  y  no  sabe  lo  que  quiere. —  Vida,  cap.  .\x.  p.  135.  But  it  is  a  sore 
trial  to  her  when  her  fancy  is  limed,  and  the  key  to  her  chamber  of  vision,  for  li 
season,  lost. 

When  we  leave  Dionysius  and  John,  and  come  to  the  French  mystics,  how 
great  the  difference  !  The  soul  hangs  no  longer  in  a  lightlcss  void,  trembles  no 
more  on  the  verge  of  swooning  ecstacy.  This  '  Visio  caliginosa'  becomes,  not 
nierel)'  a  comprehensible  thing,  but  so  clarified,  humanized,  and  we  may  say 
Christianized,  as  to  come  within  the  range  of  every  devout  con.sciousness.  The 
'  indistinct  contemplation'  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales  is  a  summary  and  comprehen- 
sive view  of  Divine  truth  or  the  Divine  Nature, — simple,  emotional,  jubilant, 
;vs  distinguished  from  the  detailed  and  partial  views  of  searching  Meditation. 
As  he  fancifully  expresses  it,  this  simplicity  of  contemplation  does  not  pluck  th.e 
rose,  the  thyme,  the  jessamine,  the  orange-flower,  inhaling  th.e  scent  of  each 
separately, — this  the  flower-gatherer  Meditation  does  ; — Contemplation  rejoices 
in  the  fragrance  distilled  from  them  all.  An  example  perfectly  explains  his 
meaning.  O  que  bien-heiu'eux  sent  ceux  qui,  apres  avoir  discouru  (the  dis- 
cursive acts  above  spoken  of)  sur  la  n-.ultitude  des  motifs  qu'ils  ont  d'aymer 
Dieu,  reduisans  tons  leurs  regards  en  une  seule  veue  et  toutes  leurs  pcnsees  en 
une  seule  conclusion,  arrestant  leur  esprit  en  I'unite  de  la  contemplation,  a 
I'exemple  deS.  Augustin  ou  de  S.  Bruno,  prononcant  secrettement  en  leur  ame, 
par  une  admiration  permanente,  ces  paroles  amoureuses  :  O  bonte !  bonte  ! 
bonte  !  tousjours  ancienne  et  tousjours  nouvelle  ! — Traiti  de  I'Amotir  de  Dieu, 
liv.  vi.  chap.  v. 

Every  religious  man  must  remember  times  when  he  was  the  subject  of  some 
such  emotion,  when  the  imagination  bodied  forth  no  form,  the  reason  performed 
no  conscious  process,  but,  after  some  train  of  thought,  at  the  sight  of  some 
word,  or  while  gazmg  on  some  scene  of  beauty,  an  old  truth  seemed  to  over- 
whelm him  {as  though  never  seen  till  then)  with  all  its  grandeur  or  endearment, 
— times  when  he  felt  the  poverty  of  words,  and  when  utterance,  if  left  at  all, 
could  only  come  in  the  fervid,  broken  syllables  of  reiterated  ejaculation.  In 
such  melting  or  such  tumult  of  the  soul,  there  is  no  mysticism.  Even  Deism, 
in  a  susceptible  Rousseau,  cannot  escape  this  passion.  He  speaks  of  a 
bewildering  ecstasy  awakened  by  nature,  which  would  overcome  him  with  such 
force,  that  he  could  but  repeat,  in  almost  delirious  transport,  '  O  Great  Being  ! 
O  Great  Being  !'  Neither  is  it  mystical  to  prefer  the  kindling  masterful  impulse 
of  a  faith  which  possesses  us,  rather  than  we  it,  to  the  frigid  exactitude  of  life- 
less prescription.  The  error  of  the  mystics  lay  in  the  undue  value  they  attached 
to  such  emotions,  and  their  Irequent  endeavours  to  excite  them  for  their  own 
sake  ;  in  transferring  what  was  jieculiar  to  those  seasons  to  the  other  provinces 
of  life  ;  and  in  the  constant  tendency  of  their  religionism  to  underrate  the 
balanced  exercise  of  all  our  faculties,  neglecting  knowledge  and  action  in  a 
feverish  craving  for  evanescent  fervours. 

Fenelon,  speaking  of  the  negative  character  of  pure  and  direct  contemplation, 
teaches  a  doctrine  widely  different  from  that  of  Dionysius,  even  while  refcrringwith 
reverence  to  his  name.  He  is  careful  to  state  that  the  attributes  of  God  do  not,  at 
such  times,  cease  to  be  present  to  the  mind,  though  no  sensible  image  be  there, 
no  discursive  act  performed  ;  that  the  essence,  without  the  attributes,  would  be 
the  essence  no  longer  ;  that,  in  the  highest  contemplation,  the  truths  of  revela- 
tion do  not  cease  to  be  admissible  to  the  mind  ;  that  the  humanity  of  Christ, 


l8o  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  i.\. 

and  all  his  mysteries,  may  then  be  distinctly  present, — seen  simply,  lovingly,  as 
faith  presents  them,  only  that  there  is  no  systematic  effort  to  impresi  the  several 
details  on  the  imagination,  or  to  draw  conclusions  from  them. — Explic.  des 
Aliixhnes  des  f.iints,  art.  xxvii. 

Note  to  page  173. 

See  the  clear  and  guarded  language  of  the  twenty-eiglith  article  in  the 
Maximes  des  Saints,  and  the  Troiuhne  Lettre  en  reponse  a  divers  Ecrits, 
Secoude  Partie. 

The  language  of  Molinos  on  this  point  is  as  follows  : — 'Although  the  humanity 
of  Christ  is  the  most  perfect  and  most  holy  mean  of  access  to  God,  the  highest 
mean  of  our  salvation,  yea  the  channel  through  which  alone  we  receive  every 
blessing  for  which  we  hope,  yet  is  the  humanity  not  the  supreme  good,  for  that 
consists  in  the  contemplation  of  God.  But  as  Jesus  Christ  is  what  he  is  more 
through  his  divine  nature  than  his  human,  so  that  man  contemplates  Christ 
continually  and  thinks  of  Him,  who  thinks  on  God,  and  liath  regard  constantly 
to  Him.  And  this  is  the  case  more  especially  with  the  contemjjlative  man,  who 
possesses  a  faith  more  purified,  clear,  and  experimental.' — Arnold,  loc.  cit., 
p.  183. 

Such  a  passage  proves  merely  thus  much,  that  Molinos  shared  in  the  general 
tendency  of  the  authorised  mediaeval  mysticism, — a  tendency  leading  the  con- 
templatist  to  see  Christ  in  God,  rather  than  God  in  Christ,  and  placing  him  in 
danger  of  resolving  Redemption  into  self-loss  in  the  abstract  Godhead.  Similar 
expressions  are  frequent  in  Tauler,  in  Ruysbroek,  in  Suso,  in  the  German  theo- 
logy. Now  we  know  by  what  these  same  men  say  at  other  times,  that  it  was 
not  their  intention  to  disparage  or  discard  the  humanity  of  Christ.  Similar 
allowance  must  be  made  for  Molinos — quite  as  far  from  such  practical  Docetism 
as  they  were.  The  words  just  quoted  should  be  compared  with  the  title  of  the 
sixteenth  chapter  in  his  first  book  ;  '  How  in  the  inward  recollection,  or  draw- 
ing in  of  our  powers,  we  may  enter  into  the  internal  Ground,  thmiig/i  the  most 
holy  Humanity  of  Jesus  Christ.'  A  gross  and  materialised  apprehension  of  the 
bodily  sufferings  of  the  Saviour  had  become  general  in  the  Romish  Church. 
They  were  dramatized  in  imagination  and  in  fact,  into  a  harrowing  spectacle  of 
physical  anguish.  The  end  was  lost  sight  of  in  the  means.  To  such  sensible 
representations — such  excesses  of  over-wrought  sentiment,  Molinos  was  doubt- 
less unfriendly  ;  and  so,  a!so,  the  more  refined  and  elevated  mysticism  of  thai 
communion  has  generally  been.  Molinos  is  nearer  to  the  spiritual  Tauler  than 
10  the  sensuous  Theresa.  Where  he  speaks  of  passivity  and  acquiescence  in 
desertion  (§  5),  of  contemplation  (55  17,  18),  of  self-abandonment  (§  30),  of  the 
divine  vocation  and  elevation  necessary  to  the  attainment  of  the  contemplative 
heights,  where  he  says  that  we  must  not,  without  the  direction  of  an  experienced 
adviser,  seek  to  raise  ourselves  Irom  one  stage  to  a  higlier  (§  24),  he  does  but 
repeat  what  the  most  orthodox  mystics  had  said  before  liim.  Holy  indifference 
to  spiritual  enjoyments  and  maniiestations,  and  complete  passivity,  are  not 
more  earnestly  enjoined  by  John  ot  the  Cross  than  by  Molinos.  Yet  one  main 
charge  against  the  Quietists  was,  thit  they  made  mysticism  a  human  method, 
and  proposed  to  raise  fo  mystical  perfection  all  who  were  ready  to  go  through 
•heir  process.  The  accusations  brought  against  Quietism  by  Berthicr  in  his 
Discours  sur  u  hon-Quietisme  cle  S.  1  heresa,  and  in  his  tenth  letter  on  the 
works  of  John  of  the  Cross,  are  self-destructive.  In  one  place  he  finds  the 
Quietists  guihy  ot  making  '  thei  pretended  spiritua'  man'  an  insensible  kind  of 
being,  who  remains  always  apathetic — dans  une  inalteration  et  une  iiiaction 
entiere  en  la  presence  de  Dieu.  In  another,  he  represents  then  as  ofiering  to 
♦ea;h  contemplation  to  all  (irrespective  of  the  director's  consent,  he  fears)  by 


c.  2.]  Molinos  i8r 

reducing  it  to  a  method,  liither  way  the  unhappy  Quictists  cannot  escape  : 
they  must  always  do  too  much  or  too  little.  It  was  against  the  artificial  methods 
of  devotion,  so  much  in  vogue,  that  Molinos  protested,  when  he  called  hii 
readers  away  from  the  puerile  manuals  and  bead-counting  of  the  day,  to  direct 
and  solitary  communion  with  God.  Several  of  the  articles  of  condemnation  are 
such  as  would  have  been  drawn  out  against  a  man  suspected  of  Protestantism. 
On  the  question  of  the  humanity  of  Christ,  the  proposition  professedly  deduced 
from  the  doctrines  of  Molinos,  and  censured  accordingly,  ruTis  thus — '  We  must 
do  no  good  works  of  our  own  motion,  and  render  no  homage  to  Our  Ladj',  the 
Saints,  or  Christ's  humanity,'  &c. — Art.  xx.w. 


CHAPTER  III. 

,ninH^  *fhnf  tf''^'  endeavour  after  so  still,  so  silent,  and  demure  condition  of 
nnnde,  that  they  would  have  the  sense  of  nothing  there  but  peace  and  rest 
striving  to  make  their  whole  nature  desolate  of  all  ^«/;«.z//^/»-«S«Avhatso: 
ever,  what  do  they  effect  but  a  clear  Day,  shining  upon  a  barren  Heath  that 
?ut  oT  f  ^"7  ""'■,  "«^r-,-"<=i^''er  Sheep  nof  Shepherd  is  to  be  seen  the  ^ 
AnH  v?/.  f  M^''^'  s'i^"^Sohtude,  and  one  uniform  parchednesse  and  vacuity 
And  yet  while  a  man  fancies  himself  thus  wholly  divine,  he  is  not  aware  how  he 
s  even  then  held  down  by  his  Animal  Nature-  and   that  it  is  nothing  but  the 

ri'r;nS^r-H^jLi  £r  ^^-^  ''^'  ^^-  ^^--  '^^-'  ^--^  '^  ^^^  ^- 

II.  6V.  yo//H  of  the  Cross. 
J^ITTLE  John  of  the  Cross— a  hero,  like  Tydeus,  small  in 
body,  but  great  in  soul— was  in  the  prime  of  life  when 
Theresa  was  growing  old.     Early  distinguished  by  surpassing 
austerity  and  zeal,  he  was  selected  by  the  Saint  as  her  coadjutor 
in  the  great  work  of  Carmelite  reform.     The  task  was  no  easy 
one,  though  sanctioned  by  the  highest  spiritual  authority.  This 
troculus  service— the  picking  the  teeth  of  the  gorged  ecclesiasti- 
cal   crocodile— has   always    been   a   somewhat   delicate    and 
dangerous  affair.     The  great  jaws  closed  with  a  horrible  crash 
one  day  on  poor  Madame  Guyon,  as  she  was  working  away  with 
her  sohtary  bill  and  the  best  intentions.     On  John,  too,  busy 
at  a  little  scavenger's  work,  those  jaws  had  once  almost  met, 
and  at  least  knocked  him  fluttering  into  a  hollow  tooth,— in 
other  words,  a  dark  and  noisome  dungeon  at  Toledo.     But 
what  between  St.  Theresa's  intercession  and  that  of  the  Mother 
of  God,  he  is  let  fly  again.     Vicar-provincial  of  Andalusia,  he 
plies  his  task  anew,  with  admirable  intrepidity  and  self-devo- 
tion ;  courts  hatred  and  opprobrium  on  every  side ;  flourishes 
his   whip;    overturns   secularities;    and   mouses   for  flaws  of 


c.  3.]  spurious  Hiimility.  183 

regulation.  He  succeeds  in  excavating  in  every  direction 
spiritual  catacombs  and  mummy-caves,  where,  swathed  up  in 
long  rows,  the  religious  dumb  and  withered  line  the  cloister- 
walls — motionless — satisfactorily  dead.  Next  to  Ignatius 
Loyola,  be  was,  perhaps,  the  greatest  soul-sexton  that  ever 
handled  shovel. 

John  of  the  Cross  obtained  this  distinctive  name  through 
his  love  of  crosses.  He  was  consumed  by  an  insatiable  love  of 
suffering.  It  was  his  prayer  that  not  a  day  of  his  life  might 
pass  in  which  he  did  not  suffer  something.  Again  and  again 
does  he  exhort  the  monk,  saying — '  Whatsoever  j-ou  find 
pleasant  to  soul  or  body,  abandon  ;  whatsoever  is  painful,  em- 
brace it.'  '  Take  pains,'  he  says,  '  to  give  your  name  an  ill 
savour  ;  burrow  deep  and  deeper  under  heaped  obloquy,  and 
you  are  safe.'^  Thus  is  the  odour  of  sanctity  best  secured  ; 
and  the  disguised  saint  resembles  that  eastern  prince  who  con- 
cealed himself  from  his  pursuers  beneath  a  heap  of  onions,  lest 
the  fragrance  of  his  perfumes  should  betray  him.  The  man 
who  is  truly  dead  and  self-abandoned  will  not  only  thus  dis- 

1  His  exhortations  here  carry  ascetic  ables  ;  non  pas  a  celles  qui  consolent, 
self-abnegation  far  beyond  the  Quietist  mais  a  celles  qui  causent  de  la  peine  ; 
indifference  of  Fenelon  or  JSIadanie  non  pas  aux  plus  grandes,  mais  aux 
Guyon.  They  were  satisfied— he,  plus  petites  ;  non  pas  aux  plus  sub- 
always,  and  she  throughout  her  later  limes  et  aux  plus  precieuses,  mais  aux 
lifi— to  seek  a  state  of  calm,  to  hail  plus  basses  et  aux  plus  meprisables. 
joy  or  sorrow  alike,  with  the  irustful  II  faut  enfin  desirer  et  rechercher  ce 
equanimity  of  perfect  resignation.  qu'il  y  a  de  pire,  et  non  ce  qu'il  y  a  de 
John  is  too  violent — too  much  enam-  meilleur,  afindese  mettre,  pourlamour 
oured  of  miseries,  to  await  the  will  of  de  Jesus  Christ,  dans  la  privation  dc 
Providence.  His  ambition  will  com-  toutes  les  chosesdu  monde,  et  d'entrer 
mand  events,  and  make  them  torments.  dans    I'esprit    d'une   audita  parfaite. 

'  Au  reste,    le   meilleur   moyen,    le  

plus  meritoire  et  le  plus  propre  pour  'Premierement,  il  faut  que  celui  qui 
acquerir  les  vertus  ;  le  moyen,  dis-je,  veut  reprimer  cette  passion  tache  de 
le  plus  sur  pour  mortifier  la  joie,  faire  les  cho3es  qui  tournent  a  son  des- 
I'esperance,  la  crainte  et  la  douleur,  honneur,  et  il  aura  soin  de  se  fairo 
est  de  se  porter  toujours  aux  choses  mepriser  aussi  par  le  prochain. 
non  pas  les  plus  faciles,  mais  les  phis  '  Secondement,  il  dira  lui-menie  et 
difficiles  ;  non  pas  les  plus  savoureuses,  fera  dire  aux  autres  les  cho.ies  qui  lui 
mais  les  plus  insipides  ;  non  pas  les  attirent  du  mepris." — Mo/ih'e  du  Car- 
plus  agreables,  mais  les  plus  desagre-  me/,  liv,  ii.  ch.  xiii. 


lU  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b. 


guise  his  virtues  before  others  ;  he  will  be  unconscious  of  them 
himself.     The  whole  life  of  John  was  an  attempt  towards  a 
practical  fulfilment  of  such  precepts.     The  party  of  his  enemies 
gained  the  upper  hand  in  the  chapter,  and  the  evening  of  his 
days  was  clouded  by  the  disgrace  of  which  he  was  covetous. 
He  passed  existence    in    violent  extremes,   now   gazing   with 
delight  on   some  celestial  mirage,  swimming  in  seas  of  glory 
that  waft  him  to  the  steps  of  the   burning  throne,— and  anon 
hurled  down  into  the   abyss,  while  vampyre  wings  of  fiends 
*  darken  his  fall,  with  victory,'  and  his  heart  itself  is  a  seething 
hell-cauldron,  wherein  demon  talons  are  the  raking  fleshhooks. 
The  piety  of  John   is  altogether  of  the  Romanist  type.     In 
his  doctrine  of  humility,  truth  is  not  to  be  considered,  but  ex- 
pediency,—that  is,  an  edifying  display  of  self-vilification.     On 
his  own  principles,  John  ought  to  have  persuaded  himself,  and 
assured  others,  that  he  was  a  self-indulgent,   pleasure-lovino- 
drone,— though  perfectly  aware  of  the  contrary.     St.  Paul  is 
content  to  bid  men  think  of  themselves  not  more  highly  than 
they   ought    to    think.      John  of  the  Cross   is  not  satisfied 
unless  they  think  worse  than  they  ought,— unless  they  think 
untruly,  and  labour  to  put  a  pious   fraud  upon   themselves. 
John  disturbs  the  equilibrium  of  Quietism.     There  is  quite  as 
much  self-will  in  going  out  of  the  way  of  a  blessing  to  seek  a 
misery,  as   in  avoiding  a  duty  for  the  sake  of  ease.     Many 
men  will  readily  endure  a  score  of  mortifications  of  their  own 
choosing,  who  would  find  it  hard  to  display  tolerable  patience 
under  a  single  infliction  from  a  source  beyond  their  control.  ' 
This  extreme  of  morbid  asceticism  is  more  easy,  because  more 
brilliant  in  its  little  world,  than  the  lowly  fortitude  of  ordinary 
Christian  life.     How  many  women,  at  this  hour,  in  poverty,  in 
pain,  in  sorrow  of  heart,  are  far  surpassing  St.  Theresa  in  their 
self-sacifice  and  patience,  unseen  and  unpraised  of  men. 
Banished  to  the  little  Convent  of  Pegnuela,  he  completed 


The  Mystical  Night.  1 85 


among  the  crags  of  the  Sierra  Morena  his  great  mystical 
treatises,  The  Obscure  JVig/ii,  and  The  Ascent  of  Carmel.  He 
follows  in  the  steps  of  the  Pseudo-Dionysius.  He  describes 
the  successive  denudations  of  the  soul  as  it  passes, — the 
shadow  of  itself,  into  the  infinite  shade  of  the  Divine  Dark.* 
We  have  seen  how  instantaneously  Theresa  could  attain  at 
times  this  oblivious  self-reduction.  Her  soul  falls  prostrate, 
with  the  ordinary  attire  of  faculties,  but  rises,  stripped  of  all  in 
a  moment.  Not  more  dexterously  was  the  fallen  Andrew 
Fairservice  stripped  in  a  twinkling  by  the  Highlanders,  so 
that  he  who  tumbled  down  a  well-clothed,  decent  serving- 
man,  stood  up  'a  forked,  uncased,  bald-pated,  beggarly- 
looking  scarecrow.'  John  of  the  Cross  describes  with  almost 
scientific  method  the  process  of  spiritual  unclothing, — preaches 
a  series  of  sermons  on  the  successive  removal  of  each  integu- 
ment,— and  perorates  on  the  blessed  reduction  of  the  soul  to  a 
supernatural  state  of  nature. 

'l"he  '  Obscure  Night,'  would  be  the  most  fitting  title  for 
both  treatises ;  for  the  night  of  mysticism  is  their  sole  subject, 
and  Mount  Carmel  does  but  figure  as  a  frontispiece,  in  com- 
pliment to  the  Order  probably.  Sundry  verses  head  the  works 
as  texts ;  the  first  of  these,  with  its  exposition,  will  sufficiently 
indicate  the  character  of  the  whole. 

En  una  noche  escura 
Con  ansias  en  amores  inflammada 
i  O  dichosa  ventura  ! 
Sali  sin  ser  notada 
Estando  ya  mi  casa  sosegada. 

'  'Twas  in  a  darksome  night,  inflamed  with  restless  love,  O 
fortune  lull  of  bliss,  I  ventured  forth  unmarked,  what  time  my 
house  was  still.' 

The  Saint  interprets  his  stanza,  in  substance,  as  follows : — 

^  Dioynsius  is  very  clearly  followed      archies  reappear  in  La  Nuit  Obscure, 
into  his  darkness  in  La  Monti  du  Car-      liv.  Ii.  ch.  xii. 
viel,  liv.  ti.  chap.  viii.  ;  and  his  Hier- 


^^^  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [-3  j^ 

Here  the  soul  says,  '  I  went  out  unhindered  by  sensuahty  or 
the  devil.  I  went  out,  that  is,  of  myself— out  from  my  own 
poor  and  feeble  manner  of  knowing,  loving,  and  tasting  God 
I  went  out,  unassisted  by  any  action  of  my  own  powers  ;  while 
my  understanding  was  wrapped  in  darkness ;  while  will  and 
memory  were  overwhelmed  by  affliction.  I  went  out,  abandon- 
mg  myself  m  pure  faith  to  darkness— that  is,  to  the  night  of  mv 
spirit  and  my  natural  powers. 

'  This  going  forth  has  crowned  me  with  happiness ;  for  I 
have  been  straightway  elevated  to  operations  entirely  divine- 
to  most  familiar  intercourses  with  God;  in  other  words  my 
understanding  has  passed  from  a  Jiuman  to  a  divine  condition 
Umtmg  myself  to  God  by  this  purgation,  my  knowledge  is  no 
longer  weak  and  limited  as  formerly ;  but  I  know  by  the  divine 
wisdom,  to  which  I  am  conjoined. 

'My  will  also  has  gone  out  of  itself,  and  become  in  a  sort 
divme ;  for  being  united  to  the  Divine  Love,  it  does  not  love 
any  longer  by  its  own  former  powers,  but  by  the  powers  of  the 
Divine  Spirit.  Thus,  its  acts  of  love  towards  the  Creator  are 
rendered  no  more  in  a  human  manner. 

'  My  memory  is  filled  with  images  of  heavenly  glory.  All 
my  powers,  in  short,  and  all  my  affections,  are  renovated  by 
the  Night  of  the  spirit  and  the  despoliation  of  the  old  man,  in 
such  sort  that  their  very  nature  seems  changed,  and  they  can 
relish  only  spiritual  and  divine  delights." 

Thus,  the  soul  is  to  resemble  the  wondrous  eastern  tree  of 
the  old  travellers,  which  by  daylight  stands  leafless  and  flower- 
less,  but  after  sundown  puts  forth  countless  white  blossoms, 
shining  in  the  darkness  like  the  drops  of  a  silver  fountain  ;  ancl 
when  the  sun  is  risen  again,  sheds  all  its  beauty,  and  stands 
bare  and  barren  as  before.  When  all  our  natural  powers,  slain 
and  buried,  lie  dead  under  the  midnight ;— then  arise,  instead 
3  La  Nuit  Obscure,  liv.  ii.  ch.  iv.  ;  ct  passim. 


c.  3]  Nights  of  Sense  and  Spirit.  187 

of  them,  certain  divine  substitutes,  which  will,  and  love,  and 
know,  as  the  Infinite  does,  not  as  men. 

The  First  Night  is  that  of  the  Sense:  the  long  process  ot 
\igil  and  austerity  which,  with  the  caduceus  of  asceticism, 
tames  and  lulls  to  slumber  the  Argus-eyed  monster  of  the  tiesh/ 
A  painful  work,  but  not  without  meet  recompence.  New 
pleasures,  even  of  the  sense,  are  supernaturally  vouchsafed  to 
the  steadfast  votary.  The  wearied  eye  and  the  unvisited  ear 
are  regaled  by  glorious  visions  and  seraphic  melody  ;  yea,  the 
parched  tongue,  and  haggard,  bleeding  flesh,  are  made  to  know 
delights  of  taste  and  touch,  that  melt  with  most  deHcious 
pleasure  through  the  frame,  and  beggar  with  their  transport  all 
the  joys  of  banquets  or  of  love. 

But  rejoice  not,  O  mystic !  for  even  now,  lest  thou  shouldst 
grow  greedy  of  these  high  luxuries,  there  strides  towards  thee 
the  darkness  of — 

The  Second  Night — the  Night  of  the  Spirit.  Here  all 
caresses  are  withdrawn.  The  deserted  soul  cannot  think,  or 
pray,  or  praise,  as  of  old.  The  great  pains  are  to  begin.  Piti- 
less purgation  and  privation  absolute  are  about  to  make  the 
second  night  not  night  only,  but  midnight.  You  seem  to 
descend,  God-abandoned,  alive  into  hell.  Make  no  resistance  : 
utter  no  cry  for  comfort.  Solace  is  a  Tantalus'  bough,  which 
will  wave  itself  away  as  you  stretch  forth  your  hand.  Acquiesce 
in  all  :  be  in  your  desertion  as  absolutely  passive  as  in  your 
rapture.  So,  from  the  bright  glassy  edge  and  summit  of  this 
awful  fall,  you  shoot  down  helpless,  blind,  and  dizzy, — down 

•»  This  first  Night  is  treated  of  at  their  continuance  (p.  444).    By  'sense,' 

length  in  the  first  book  of  the  Montt'c  John  understands,  not  the  bodv merely, 

du  Carmcl,  and  in  the  first  of  the  Nitit  but  the  least  disorder  of  the  passions. 

Obscure.     The  supernatural  sensuous  and  all  those  imperfections  so  common 

enjoyments,  alluded  to,  are  described  to  beginners  which  arise  from  an  undue 

\r\\.\\Q  Montt'c  du  Car??iel,\w.  U.q\\.  XI.  eagerness     for    religious    enjoyments, 

They  are  placed  in  the  second  Night,  such,  for  example,  as  what    he  calls 

— the  compensation  not  taking  place  spiritual     avarice,     spiritual     luxury, 

immediately  ;  and  their  recipient  is  on  sp\n\.Vi&\  gourinandise,  &c. 
no  account  to  rely  on  them,  or  desire 


1 88  77/^  Spanish  Mystics.  [n.  ix. 

tlirough  the  surging  cataract,  among  the  giant  vapour  columns, 
amid  the  eternal  roar,  to  awake  at  the  boiling  foot,  and  find 
that  you  yet  live,  in  your  tossing  shallop, — or  rather,  you  no 
longer,  for  you  yourself  are  dead — so  much  mere  ballast  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat :  a  divine  and  winged  Radiance  has  taken 
your  place,  who  animates  rather  than  steers,  guiding,  in  your 
stead,  by  mysterious  impulse/ 

To  the  higher  faculty,  then,  there  are  already  visible,  aftei 
the  first  horrors,  breaking  gleams  of  a  super-celestial  dawn. 
Visions  are  seen  ;  forms  of  glory  come  and  go  :  gifts  of  subtlest 
discernment  are  vouchsafed  :  substantial  words  are  spoken  with- 
in, which  make  you,  in  that  moment,  all  they  mean/ 

But  all  such  particular  and  special  manifestations  you  are 
peremptorily  to  reject,  come  they  from  God  or  come  they  from 
the  Devil  ; — not  even  to  reflect  upon  and  recall  them  after- 
wards, lest  grievous  harm  ensue.  For  the  philosophy  of  John 
is  summary.  Two  ideas  alone  have  room  there — All  and 
Nothing.  Whatsoever  is  created  is  finite  :  whether  actual  or 
ideal,  it  bears  no  proportion  to  the  All,— it  cannot  therefore  be 
helpful  to  any  on  their  way  to  the  All.  The  Something  is  no 
link  between  the  opposites  of  All  and  Nothing.  Therefore,  if 
any  view  of  a  particular  divine  perfection,  any  conception  of 
Deity,  or  image  of  saint  or  angel,  be  even  supernaturally  pre- 
sented to  the  mind,  reject  it.  You  are  aiming  at  the  highest — 
at  loss  in  the  All.  Everything  definite  and  particular — all  finite 
apprehension,  must  be  so  much  negation  of  the  Infinite,— must 
limit  that  All.  You  should  pass  beyond  such  things  to  blend 
immediately  with  the  Universal, — to  attain  that  view  of  God 
which  is  above  means — is  unconditioned — is,  from  its  illimitable 
vastness,  an  anguish  of  bliss, — aglory  which  produces  the  efiect 
of  darkness.' 

-  See  Note  on  p.  195.  «  Montie  du  Carmel,  liv.  Ii.  ch.  xxv.-xxxli. 

Ibid.  ch.  viii.  and  vi. 


c.  3-]  All  and  NotJiing.  189 

But  why,  it  will  be  asked,  does  God  grant  these  favours  of 
vision  to  the  saints  at  all,  if  it  is  their  duty  to  disregard  them  ? 

John  answers,  '  Because  some  transition  stage  is  unavoidable. 
But  the  higher  you  attain,  the  less  of  such  manifestation  will 
you  meet  with.  This  portion  of  your  progress  is  a  grand  stair- 
case hung  with  pictures ; — hurry  up  the  steps,  that  you  may 
enter  the  darkened  chamber  above,  where  divine  ignorance  and 
total  darkness  shall  make  you  blest.  If  in  doubt  about  a  vision, 
there  is  always  your  confessor,  to  whom,  if  you  have  not  con- 
stant resort,  Avoe  be  to  you  !  But  you  are  safe,  at  any  rate,  in 
not  receiving  and  cherishing  such  inferior  bestowments.  To 
reject  them  will  be  no  sin — no  loss.  For  the  beneficial  effects 
they  are  designed  to  produce  will  be  wrought  by  God  internally, 
if  you  only  abide  passive,  and  reiuse  to  exert  about  such 
signs  those  lower  faculties  which  can  only  hinder  your 
advance.'' 

Such  a  reply  is  but  a  fence  of  words  against  a  serious  diffi- 
culty. He  should  be  the  last  to  talk  of  necessary  intermediate 
steps  who  proclaims  the  rejection  of  everything  mediate, — who 
will  have  the  mystic  be  reduced  to  the  Nothing  and  rapt  to  the 
All,  by  a  single  entrancing  touch.'' 

Ijut  much  higher  than  any  visions  of  the  picture-go llery  are 
certain  manifestations  (sometimes  granted  in  this  state)  of  divine 
truth  in  its  absolute  nakedness.  These  are  glimpses  of  the 
Veritas  csscntialis  nude  in  se  ipsa,  beyond  all  men,  and  angels, 
and  heavenly  splendours,  which  Tauler  bids  the  mystic  long  for. 
John   iorbids  us  to  seek  them — for  effort  would  unseal  our 

8  Ibid.  ch.  xvii.  and  liv.  III.  cli.  xii.  sent  de  telle  sorte  qu'une  seule  suffit, 

^  What  a  scope  lor  the   indignant  non-seulement    pour  Ja  dd-livrer  tout 

eloquence   of    Bossuet,    had   Fenelon  d'un    coup   des   imperfections   quelle 

proclaimed  as  pofsible  such  a  sudden  n'avait  pu  vaincre  durant  tout  le  cours 

equipment  with  all  imaginjble  virtues  de  sa  vie,   mais  aussi  pour  lorner  des 

as   this  :— Quelqucs-unes  de  ces  con-  vsrtus  clnetiennes  et  des  dons  divins. 

naissanccs  et  deces  touches  interieures  — Moiiiiie  (lit  Carinc:,  liv.  II.  ch.  xxvi 

que  Dieu  rcpanddans  lame  I'enrichis-  p.  4S4. 


*90  t'he  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  -x. 

slumber.  They  come  altogether  without  consent  of  ours. 
Though  we  are  not  to  hold  ourselves  so  negative  towards  them 
as  we  should  towards  more  palpable  and  inferior  favours. 

The  Quietists  were  charged  with  excluding  all  human  co- 
operation in  the  mystical  progress.  John  must  plead  guilty  on 
this  count.  His  Avritings  abound  with  reiterated  declarations 
that  the  soul  does  absolutely  nothing  in  its  night,— with  prohi- 
bitions against  seeking  any  supernatural  favour  or  manifestation 
whatever.'" 

Urganda  the  fairy  could  find  no  way  of  raising  the  paladins 
she  loved  above  the  common  lot  of  mortals,  save  that  of  throw- 
ing them  into  an  enchanted  sleep.  So  Galaor,  Amadis,  and 
Esplandian,  sink  into  the  image  of  death  beneath  her  kindly 
wand.  Such  is  the  device  of  John— and  so  does  he  lull  and 
ward  venturous  Understanding,  learned  Memory,  and  fiery  Will. 
Faith  is  the  night  which  extinguishes  Understanding ;  Hope, 
Memory  ;  and  Love,  Will.  The  very  desire  after  supernatural 
bestowments,    (though  for  no    other   purpose    has  everything 

natural  been  doomed  to  die)  would  be  a  stirring  in  the  torpor 

a  restless,  not  a  perfect  sleep.  The  serenest  Quiet  may  be 
ruffled  by  no  such  wish. 

This,  therefore,  is  John's  fundamental  principle.  All  focuhies 
and  operations  not  beyond  the  limits  of  our  nature  must  cease 
that  we  may  have  no  natural  knowledge,  no  natural  afiection  • 
but  find,  magically  substituted,  divine  apprehensions  and  divinJ 
sentiments  quite  foreign  to  ourselves.  Then,  still  farther,  we 
are  desired  to  ignore  even  supernatural  manifestations,  if  they 
represent  to  us  anything  whatever ;  that  we  may  rise,  or  sink 

w  In   the  chapter  just  cited,   John  -P.  485.  So  ;igain,  quite  as  strongly, 

says   expressly,    '  LlJe   ne   saurait   ce-  liv.  n.  chap.  .xi.  p.  445.     He  discoun- 

pendant  selever  a  ces  connaissances  tenances   the  attempt  to  seek  perfec- 

et  a  ces  touches  divmes   par  sa  co-  tion  by  the  '  voies  surnaturelles  "  vet 

operation,   and  describes  tliese  gifts  as  his  books  are  an  introduction  Vo  the 

comnig  from  God,  '  subitement  et  sans  mystical  evening,  and  a  guide  throu<^h 

attendreleconsentementde  la  volenti.'  the  mystical  midni<Tht  ■" 


The  Night  of  Memory.  tQi 


(it  is  the  same),  to  that  swooning  gaze  on  the  Infinite  Ineffable, 
wherein  our  dissolving  nature  sees,  hears,  knows,  wills,  remem- 
bers nothing." 

The  Third  Night — that  of  the  Memory  and  the  ]Vi//?" 
Here,  not  only  do  all  the  '  trivial  fond  records'  that  may  have 
been  inscribed  upon  remembrance  vanish  utterly,  but  every 
trace  of  the  divinest  tokens  and  most  devout  experience.  The 
soul  sinks  into  profound  oblivion.  The  flight  of  time  is  un- 
marked, bodily  pain  unfelt,  and  the  place  of  Memory  entirely 
emptied  of  its  stored  '  species  and  cognitions,' — of  everything 
particular  and  distinct.  The  patient  forgets  to  eat  and  drink, 
— knows  not  whether  he  has  done  or  not  done,  said  or  not 
said,  heard  or  not  heard  this  or  that. 

'  Strange  exaltation  this,'  cries  the  objector,  *  which  imbrutcs 
and  makes  a  blank  of  man — sinks  him  below  idiotic  ignorance 
of  truth  and  virtue  !' 

John  is  ready  with  his  answer.  This  torpor,  he  replies,  is 
but  transitory.  The  perfect  mystic,  the  adept  established  in 
union,  has  ceased  to  suffer  this  oblivion.  Passing  through  it, 
he  acquires  a  new  and  divine  facility  for  every  duty  proper  to 
his  station.  He  is  in  the  supernatural  state,  and  his  powers 
have  so  passed  into  God  that  the  Divine  Spirit  makes  them 
operate  divinely, — all  they  do  is  divine.  The  Spirit  makes  such 
a  man  constantly  ignorant  of  what  he  ought  to  be  ignorant  ; 
makes  him  remember  what  he  ought  to  remember;  and  love 
what  is  to  be  loved — God  only.  Transformed  in  God,  these 
powers  are  human  no  more." 

In  the  same  way  the  night  of  will  extinguishes  joy, — joy  in 
sensible  good,  in  moral  excellence,  in  supernatural  gifts,  that 
the  soul  may  soar  to  a  delight  above  delight,  be  suspended  as 
in    a    limitless    expanse   of    calm,    far    beyond    that    lower 

1'  Z<?    lYiiit    Obscure,    liv.    ii.    ch.  '- This  night  occupies  the  third  book 

ix.  ;    especially  the  passage  cited   in      of  the  Moiitt'c  die  Carmcl. 
note  on  p.  195.  '•*  See  Note  on  p.  196. 


1 92  The  Spanish  Mystics. 


[.=. 


meteoric   sky  which   is  figured  over  with   wonders  and  with 

signs. 

^  Thus  John's  desired  coniempiaiio  infusa  is  ahvays,  at  the  same 
time,  a  coniemplatio  coiijusa. 

At  his  cuhninating  point  the  mystic  is  concealed  as  '  on  the 
secret  top  of  Horeb  ;'  he  ascends  by  a  hidden  scale,  cloaked 
with  daikness  {por  la  secreia  escala—a  escuras  y  cnzelada). 

Mark  the  advantage  of  this  enclouded  state.  The  Devil,  it 
is  said,  can  only  get  at  what  is  passing  in  our  mind  by  observing 
the  operations  of  the  mental  powers.  If,  therefore,  these  are 
inactive  and  absorbed,  and  a  divine  communication  goes  on,  in 
which  they  have  no  part  whatever,  Satan  is  baffled.  These 
highest  manifestations,  absolutely  pure,  nude,  and  immediate 
he  cannot  counterfeit  or  hinder.  The  soul  is  then  blissfully 
incognito  and  anonymous.  This  secrecy  preserves  the  mystic 
from  malign  arts,  as  the  concealment  of  their  real  names  Avas 
thought  the  safeguard  of  ancient  cities,  since  hostile  sooth- 
sayers, ignorant  of  the  true  name  to  conjure  by,  could  not  then 
entice  away  their  tutelary  gods." 

Such  then  is  the  teaching  of  the  Mount  Carmd  and  the 
Obscure  Night,  starred  with  numerous  most  irrelevant  quota- 
tions from  the  psalms  and  the  prophecies,  as  though  David  ana 
Isaiah  were  Quietists,  and  spent  their  days  in  trying  to  benumb 
imagination,  banish  the  sensuous  images  which  made  them 
poets,  and  tone  down  all  distinct  ideas  to  a  lustreless,  formless 
neutral  tint.  The  Spanish  painters  have  not  more  anachron- 
isms than  the  Spanish  mystics  ;  and  I  think  of  Murillo's  'Moses 
striking  the  Rock,'  where  Andalusian  costumes  make  gay  the 
desert,  Andalusian  faces  stoop  to  drink,  and  Andalusian  crockery 
is  held  out  to  catch  the  dashing  streams. 

In  John  of  the  Cross  we  behold  the  final  masterpiece  of 
Romanist  mysticism,  and  the  practice   (if  here  the  term  be 

'■'  See  second  Note  on  p.  196. 


c-  3-J  The  Lowest  Depths.  193 

applicable)  of  supernatural  theopathy  is  complete.     The  Art 
of  Sinking  in  Religion — the  divinity  of  diving,  could  go  no 
deeper.     The  natives  of  South  America  say  that  the  lobo  or 
seal  has  to  swallow  great  stones  when  he  wishes  to  sink  to  the 
river-bed — so  little  natural  facility  has  he  that  way.  We  sinners, 
too,  have  no  native  alacrity  for  the  mystical   descent :    our 
gravitation  does  not  tend  towards  that  depth  of  nothing ;  and 
huge  and  hard  are  the  stones  (not  bread)  with  which  this  mys- 
tagogue   would   lade   us  to  bring  us  down.      And  when,  in 
imagination  at  least,  at  the  bottom,  we  arc  smothered  in  an 
obscure    night  of  mud.      What  a  granite  boulder  is  this   to 
swallow, — to  be  told  that  the  faintest  fihii  of  attachment  that 
links  you  with  any  human  being  or  created  thing  will  frustrate 
all  your  aim,  and  be  stout  as  a  cable  to  hold  back  j'our  soul, — 
that  with  all  your  mind,  and  soul,  and  strength,  you  must  seek 
out    and  adore  the   Uncomfortable,  for  its  own  sake — that, 
drowned  and  dead,  you  must  lie  far  down,  hidden,  not  from 
the  pleasant  sunshine  only,  but  from  all  sweet  gladness  of  faith 
and  hope  and  love — awaiting,   in  obstruction,  an  abstraction. 
This  resurrection  to  a  supersensuous   serenity,  wherein  divine 
powers  supersede  your  own,  is  a  mere  imagination — a  change 
of  words  •  the  old  hallucination  of  the  mystic,     Al'ter  going 
through  a  certain  amount  of  suffering,  the  devotee  chooses  to 
term  whatever  thoughts  or  feelings  he  may  have,  his  own  no 
longer :  he  fancies  them  divine.     It  is  the  same  man  from  first 
to  last. 

Admitting  its  great  fundamental  error— this  unnaturalness, — 
as  though  grace  came  in  to  make  our  fiesh  and  blood  a  sense- 
less puppet  pulled  by  celestial  wires, — it  must  be  conceded 
that  the  mysticism  of  John  takes  the  very  highest  ground.  It 
looks  almost  with  contempt  upon  tlie  phantoms,  the  caresses, 
the  theurgic  toys  of  grosser  mystics.  In  this  respect,  John  is 
far  beyond  Theresa.     He  has  a  purpose  ;  he  thinks  he  knows 

VOL.  II.  O 


194  The  Spanish  Mystics.  [b.  ix, 

a  way  to  it ;  and  he  pursues  it,  unfaltering,  to  the  issue.  He 
gazes  steadily  on  the  grand  impalpabiUty  of  the  Areopagite, 
and  essays  to  mount  thither  with  a  holy  ardour  of  which  the 
old  Greek  gives  no  sign.  And  this^  too,  with  the  vision-craving 
sentimental  Theresa  at  his  side,  and  a  coarsely  sensuous 
Romanism  all  around  him.  No  wonder  that  so  stern  a 
spiritualism  was  little  to  the  taste  of  some  church-dignitaries  in 
soft  raiment.  It  is  impossible  not  to  recognize  a  certain 
grandeur  in  such  a  man.  Miserably  mistaken  as  he  was,  he  is 
genuine  throughout  as  mystic  and  ascetic.  Every  bitter  cup 
he  would  press  to  the  lips  of  others  he  had  first  drained  him- 
self. His  eagerness  to  suffer  was  no  bravado — no  romancing 
affectation,  as  with  many  of  his  tribe.  In  his  last  illness  at 
Pegnuela  he  was  allowed  his  choice  of  removal  between  two 
places.  At  one  of  them  his  deadly  enemy  was  prior.  He 
bade  them  carry  him  thither,  for  there  he  would  have  most  to 
endure.  That  infamous  prior  treated  with  the  utmost  barbarity 
the  dying  saint,  on  whom  his  implacable  hatred  had  already 
heaped  every  wrong  within  his  power."  Let,  then,  a  melan- 
choly admiration  be  the  meed  of  John — not  because  the  mere 
mention  of  the  cross  was  sufficient,  frequently,  to  throw  him 
mto  an  ecstasy, — not  because  his  face  was  seen  more  than  once 
radiant  with  a  lambent  fire  from  heaven, — these  are  the  vulgar 
glories  of  the  calendar, — but  because,  believing  in  mystical 
death,  he  did  his  best  to  die  it,  and  displayed  in  suffering  and 
in  action  a  self-sacrificing  heroism  which  could  only  spring 
from  a  devout  and  a  profound  conviction.  We  find  in  him 
no  sanctimonious  lies,  no  mean  or  cruel  things  done  for  the 
honour  of  his  Church — perhaps  he  was  not  thus  tempted  or 
commanded  as  others  have  been, — and  so,  while  he  must  have 
less  merit  with  Rome  as  a  monk,  let  him  have  the  more  with 
us  as  a  man. 

'»  See  the  life  of  the  saint  in  Alban  Butler,  Nov.  24. 


Th-:  Obscure  Night,  1 95 


Note  to  page  18S. 

Moiitde  dit  Canncl,  liv.  ii.  ch.  ii.  and  iv.  ;  nlso  La  Ntiit  Obscure,  i.  viii.  and 
II.  ch.  v.-i.\-.  This  night  is  far  more  dark  and  painful  than  the  first  and  third  ; 
and  while  the  first  is  represented  as  common  to  many  religious  aspirants,  the 
second  is  attained  but  by  a  few. 

Si  quelqu'un  demande  pourquoi  Time  donne  le  nom  de  nuit  obscure  a  Ii 
lumiere  divine  qui  dissipe  ses  ignorances,  je  reponds  que  cette  divine  sagessecst 
non-seulemcnt  la  nuit  de  lame,  mais  encore  son  suj^plice,  pour  deux  raisons  : 
la  jjremiere  est,  parce  que  la  sublimit^  de  la  sagesse  divine  surpasse  de  telle 
sortc  la  capacite  de  I'ame,  que  ce  n'est  que  nuit  et  tenebres  pour  elle  ;  la  seconde, 
la  bassesse  et  I'impurete  de  lame  sont  telles,  que  cette  sagesse  la  remplit  de 
pcinos  et  d'obscuritc's. — P.  593. 

Mais  le  plus  grand  supplice  de  \kme.  est  de  croireque  Dieulahait,  laddlaisse, 
et  la  jette  pour  cette  raison  dans  les  tenebres En  effet,  lorsque  la  con- 
templation dont  Dieu  se  sert  pour  purifier  Fame  la  mortifie  en  la  depouillant  de 
tout,  I'ame  eprouve,  avec  un.;  vivacite  pendtrante,  toute  I'horreur  que  cause  la 

mort,  et  toutes  les  douleurs  et  tous  les  g^missements  de  I'enfer,  &c On 

peut  dire  avec  probabilite,  qu'une  ame  qui  a  passd  par  ce  purgatoire  spirituel, 
on  n'entrera  pas  dans  le  purgatoire  de  I'autre  monde,  ou  n'y  demeurera  pas 
longtemps. — P.  597. 

But  tlie  most  characteristic  passage  on  this  subject  is  the  following  :  it  con- 
tains the  e=sence  of  his  mysticism  : — Les  affections  et  les  connaissances  de 
I'esprit  purifie  et  eleve  a  la  perfection  sont  d'un  rang  superieur  aux  affections  et 
aux  connaissances  naturelles,  elles  sont  surnaturelles  et  divines  ;  de  sorte  que, 
pour  en  acquerir  les  actes  ou  les  habitudes,  il  est  necessaire  que  celles  qui-  ne 
sortcnt  point  dcs  borncs  de  la  naitti-e  soient  eteintes.  C'est  pourquoi  il  est  d'une 
grand  utilite  en  cette  matiere  que  I'esprit  perdc  dans  cette  nuit  obscure  ses  con- 
naissances naturelles,  pour  etre  revetu  de  cette  lumiere  tres-subtile  et  toute 
divine,  et  pour  devenir  lui-meme,  en  quelque  facon,  tout  divin  dans  son  union 
avec  la  sagesse  dc  Dieu.  Cette  nuit  ou  cette  obscurite  doit  durer  autant  de 
temps  qu'il  en  faut  pour  contracter  I'habitude  dans  I'usage  qu'on  fait  de  cette 
lumiere  surnaturelle.  On  doit  dire  la  meme  chose  de  la  volont6  :  elle  est 
obligee  de  se  defaire  de  toutes  ses  affections  qui  I'attachent  aux  objets  naturels, 
pour  recevoir  les  admirables  effets  de  I'amour  qui  est  extremement  spirituel, 
subtil,  delicat,  intime,  qui  suipasse  tous  les  sentiments  naturels  et  toutes  les 
affections  de  la  volonte,  qui  est  enfin  tout  divin  ;  et  afin  qu'elle  soit  toute  trans- 
formee  en  cette  amour  par  I'union  qui  lui  est  accordee  dans  la  perte  de  tous  ses 
Liens  naturels. 

II  faut  encore  que  la  m<5moire  soit  denude  des  images  qui  lui  forment  les  con- 
naissances douees  et  tranquilles  des  choses  dont  elle  se  souvient,  afin  qu'elle  les 
regarde  commc  des  choses  ^trangeres,  ct  que  ces  choses  lui  paraissent  d'une 
maniere  diflerente  de  I'idee  qu'elle  en  avait  auparavant.  Par  ce  moyen,  cette 
nuit  obscure  retirera  I'esprit  du  sentiment  commun  et  ordinaire  qu'il  avait  des 
objets  crimes,  ct  lui  imprimera  mi  soitimcnt  tout  divin,  qui  lui  sembleraetranger  ; 
en  sorte  que  I'ame  vivra  commc  hors  d'elle-mcme,  ct  elevec  au-dessus  de  la  vie 
humaine  ;  elle  doutera  quelqucfois  si  ce  qui  se  passe  en  elle  n'est  point  un  en- 
chantement,  ou  une  stupidite  d'esprit ;  elle  s'etonnera  de  voir  et  d'entendre  des 
choses  qui  lui  semblent  fort  iiouvelles,  quoiqu'elles  soient  les  niemes  que  celles 
qu'elle  avait  autrefois  entre  les  mains.  La  cause  de  ce  cliangemcnt  est  puree  que 
lame  doit  fcrdre  enticrement  ses  connaissances  et  ses  sentiments  liuinains,  pouf 
prendre  des  connaissances  et  dcs  sentiments  divins  ;  ce  qui  est  plus  propre  de  In 
t.'i  Jutitre  que  de  la  vie prese?ite, — P.  601. 

0  3 


ig6  TJie  SpanisJi  Mystics.  [n.  ly 


NOTE   TO   PAGE  lOI. 

'  Pour  repondre  a  cette  objection,  je  dis  que  plus  la  memoire  est  unie  h  Dieu, 
plus  elle  jjerd  ses  connaissances  distinctes  et  particulieres,  jusqu'a  ce  quelle  les 
oublie  entiercment :  ce  qui  arrive  lorsque  lame  est  etablie  dans  Tunion  parfaite. 
Cast  pourquoi  elle  tombe  d'abord  dans  un  grand  oubli,  puisque  le  souvenir  des 
especes  et  des  connaissances  s'evanouit  en  elle.  Ensuite  elle  se  comporte  k 
regard  des  choses  exterieures  avec  une  negligence  si  notable  et  un  si  grand 
mepris  d'elle-meme,  qu'etant  toute  abimee  en  Dieu,  elle  oublie  le  boire  et  le 
manger,  et  elle  ne  salt  si  elle  a  fait  quelque  chose  ou  non.  si  elle  a  vu  ou  non  ; 
si  on  lui  a  parle  ou  non.  Mais  lorsqu'elle  est  affermie  dans  I'habitude  de  I'union, 
qui  est  son  souverain  bicn,  elle  ne  souffre  plus  ces  oubliances  dans  les  choses 
raisonnables,  dans  les  choses  morales,  ni  dans  les  choses  naturelles  :  au  con- 
traire,  elle  est  plus  parfaite  dans  les  operations  convenables  k  son  etat,  quoi- 
qu'elle  les  produise  par  le  ministere  des  images  et  des  connaissances  que  Dieu 
excite  d'une  fa9on  particuliere  dans  la  memoire.  Car  lorsque  I'habitude  de 
I'union,  qui  est  un  etat  surnaturel,  est  form^e,  la  memoire  et  les  autres  puis- 
sances quittent  leurs  operations  naturelles  et  passent  jusqu'a  Dieu,  qui  est  a  leur 
egard  un  terme  surnaturel.  En  sorte  que  la  memoire  etant  toute  tiansformce 
en  Dieu,  ses  operations  ne  lui  sout  plus  imprimees,  et  ne  demeurent  plus 
attachees  a  elle.  La  memoire  et  les  autres  facultes  de  I'ame  sont  occupees  de 
Dieu  avec  un  empire  si  absolu,  qu'elles  semblent  etre  toutes  divines,  et  que  c'est 
lui-meme  qui  les  meut  par  son  esprit  et  par  sa  volonte  divine,  et  qui  les  fait 
opercr  en  quelque  fapon  divinement:  "  Puisque  celui,"  dit  I'Apotre,  "  quis'unit 
au  Seigneur,  devient  une  meme  esprit  avec  lui"  (i  Cor.  vi.  17).  II  est  done 
veritable  que  les  operations  de  I'ame,  etant  unies  totalement  a  Dieu,  sont  toutes 
divines.' — Moni^e  du  Carmcl,  liv.  ill.  ch.  i. 

Note  to  page  192. 

La  A^uii  Obscure,  liv.  II.  ch.  xvii.  xviii.: — '  L'esprit  malin  ne  pent  connaltre 
ce  qui  se  passe  dans  la  volontd  que  par  les  operations  de  ces  puissances. 
Ainsi,  plus  les  communications  de  Dieu  son  spirituelles,  interieures,  et  eloignees 
des  sens,  moins  il  pent  decouvrir  et  les  penetrer'. — P.  621. 

Evil  angels  may  counterfeit  those  supernatural  communications  which  ara 
vouchsafed  through  the  agency  of  the  good.  Br.t  the  infused  passive  contem- 
plation, in  v/hich  neither  the  understanding,  the  imagination,  nor  the  sense, 
exercise  their  representative  office,  is  secret  and  safe.  '  Quand  Dieu  la  (I'^me) 
comble  immddiatement  par  lui-meme  de  ses  graces  spirituelles,  elle  sc  derobe 
entierement  k  la  vue  de  son  adversaire,  parceque  Dieu,  qui  est  son  souverain 
.Seigneur,  demeure  en  elle,  et  ni  les  bons  ni  les  mauvais  anges  ne  peuvent  y 
avoir  entree,  ni  decouvrir  les  communications  intimes  et  secretes  qui  se  font 
entre  Dieu  et  I'ame.  EUes  sont  toutes  divines,  elles  sont  infiniment  elevdes, 
elles  sont  en  quelque  sorte  les  saeres  attouchements  des  deux  extremites  qui  se 
trouvent  entre  Dieu  et  I'ame  dans  leur  union  :  et  c'est  la  oil  I'ame  recoit  plus  de 
biens  spirituels  qu'cn  tons  les  autres  degres  de  la  contemplation  (Cant.  i.  i). 
C'est  aussi  ce  que  I'epouse  demandait,  quand  elle  priat  I'Epoux  divin  de  lui 
donner  un  saint  baiser  de  sabouche'. — Chap,  xxiii.  p.  623. 

Tiius,  this  culminating  point  of  negation  is  at  least,  to  some  extent,  a  safe- 
guard. The  extinction  of  knowledge,  by  confining  ourselves  to  the  incompre- 
hensible [Lettrcs  Spirituelles,  p.  724),  and  of  joy,  by  renouncing  spiritual 
delights,  the  refusal  to  entertain  any  extraordinary  manifestations  that  assume  a 
definite  form  or  pinport,  docs  at  the  same  time  shut  out  all  that  region  of 
visionary  hallucination  in  which  many  mystics  have  passed  their  days.  It  is 
indisputably  true  that  the  more  the  mystic  avoids,  rather  than  craves,  the  excite- 


3-]  Holy  Blindness.  lOjj 


mcntb  of  imai;iiiatioii,  sentiment,  and  miracle,  the  safer  must  li';  be  from  the 
dehisions  to  wliich  he  is  exposed,  if  not  by  the  juggle  of  lying  spirits,  by  the 
fever  of  his  own  distempered  brain.  No  one  who  obeys  John's  great  maxim, 
'  11  ne  faut  pas  voyager  pour  voir,  mais  pour  ne  pas  voir,'  will  trouble  the  holy 
darkness  of  his  church  by  any  erratic  novelties  of  light.  Indeed,  against  such 
danger  careful  provision  is  made  by  that  law  which  is  with  him  the  sinequa  nou 
of  mystical  progress, — Ne  regardez  jamais  votre  superieur,  quel  qu'il  soit,  qui; 
comme  Dieu  mcme,  piiisqu'il  vpus  est  doane  comme  lieutenant  de  Dieu.' — /'/.'- 
cautions  SpirltuclUs,  p.  734. 


BOOK    THE    TENTH 


QUIETISM, 


CHAPTER  I. 

Love!  if  thy  destined  sacrifice  am  I, 

Come,  slay  thy  victim,  and  pre])are  thy  fires  ; 

Plunged  in  thy  depths  of  mercy  let  me  die 
The  death  which  everv  soul  tliat  lives  desires ! 

Madame  Guyon. 

■pvO  you  remember,'  said  Atherton  to  Willoughby,  when  he 
^^  had  called  to  see  him  one  morning,  '  the  hunt  we  once 
had  after  that  passage  in  Jeremy  Taylor,  about  Bishop  Ivo's 
adventure  ?  Coleridge  relates  the  story  without  saymg  exactly 
where  it  is,  and  his  daughter  states  in  a  note  that  she  had  been 
unable  to  find  the  place  in  Taylor.' 

'  I  recollect  it  perfectly  ;  and  we  discovered  it,  I  think,  in 
the  first  part  of  his  sermon  On  tJie  Mercy  of  the  Divine 
yndginents.  Ivo,  going  on  an  embassy  for  St.  Louis,  meets  by 
the  way  a  grave,  sad  woman,  doesn't  he  ? — with  fire  in  one 
hand,  and  water  in  the  other ;  and  when  he  inquires  what  these 
symbols  may  mean,  she  answers,  "  My  purpose  is.  with  fire  to 
burn  Paradise,  and  with  my  water  to  quench  the  flames  of  hell, 
that  men  may  serve  God  without  the  incentives  of  hope  and 
fear,  and  purely  for  the  love  of  God." 

'  Well,  Gower  has  painted  her  portrait  for  us, — Queen 
Quietude,  he  calls  her  :  and  it  is  to  be  hung  up  here  over  my 
chimney-piece,  by  the  next  evening  we  meet  together,' 

The  evening  came.  Atherton  was  to  read  a  paper  on  '  Madame 
Guyon  and  the  Quietist  Controversy,'  and  Gower  was  to  e.Khil)it 
and  explain  his  allegorical  picture. 

'rhis  painting  represented  a   female   figure,  simply  clad  in 


202  Quietism.  [b.  X. 

sombre  garments,  sitting  on  a  fragment  of  rock  at  the  summit 
of  a  high  hill.  On  her  head  hung  a  garland,  half  untwined, 
from  neglect,  which  had  been  fantastically  woven  of  cypress, 
bound  about  with  heart's-ease.  Many  flowers  of  the  heart's- 
ease  had  dropped  off,  withered  ;  some  were  lying  unheeded  in 
her  lap.  Her  face  was  bent  downward  ;  its  expression  perfectly 
calm,  and  the  cast  of  sadness  it  wore  rather  recorded  a  past, 
than  betrayed  a  present  sorrow.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  pensively, 
and  without  seeming  to  see  them,  on  the  thin  hands  which  lay 
folded  on  her  knees.  No  anxious  effort  of  thought  contracted 
that  placid  brow;  no  eager  aspiration  lifted  those  meekly- 
drooping  eyelids. 

At  her  feet  lay,  on  her  right,  the  little  brazier  in  which  she 
had  carried  her  fire,  still  emitting  its  grey  curls  of  smoke  ;  and, 
on  her  left,  the  overturned  water-urn — a  Fortunatus-purse  of 
water, — from  whose  silver  hollow  an  inexhaustible  stream 
welled  out,  and  leaping  down,  was  lost  to  sight  among  the  rocks. 

Behind  her  lay  two  wastes,  stretching  from  east  to  west.  The 
vast  tracts,  visible  from  her  far-seeing  mountain,  were  faintly 
presented  in  the  distance  of  the  picture.  But  they  were  never 
looked  upon ;  her  back  was  toward  them  ;  they  belonged  to  a 
past  never  remembered.  In  the  east  stretched  level  lands, 
covered  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  with  cold  grey  inundation. 
Here  and  there  coal-black  ridges  and  dots  indicated  the 
highest  grounds  still  imperfectly  submerged ;  and  in  some  places 
clouds  of  steam,  water-spouts,  and  jets  of  stones  and  mire, — 
even  boulders  of  rock,  hurled  streaming  out  of  the  waters  into 
the  air, — betrayed  the  last  struggles  of  the  Fire-Kingdom  with 
the  invasion  of  those  illimitable  tides.  vSo  have  her  enchant- 
ments slain  the  Giant  of  Fire,  and  laid  him  to  rest  under  a 
water-pall.  The  place  of  dolours  and  of  endless  burning — so 
populous  with  Sorrows — is  to  be  a  place  of  great  waters,  where 
the  slow  vacant  waves  of  the  far-glittering  reaches  will  come 


I.]  Paradise  Burned— Hell  Queiiclied.  203 


and  go  among  the  channels  and  the  pools,  and  not  even  the 
bittern  shall  be  there,  with  his  foot  to  print  the  ooze,  with  his 
wing  to  shadow  the  sleeping  shallows,  with  his  cry  to  declare  it 
all  a  desolation. 

In  the  western  background,  the  saintly  art  of  Queen  Quietude 
has  made   a  whole  burnt-offering  of  the  cedar  shades,   and 
flowery  labyrinths,  and  angel-builded  crystal  domes  of  Paradise. 
Most  fragrant  holocaust  that  ever  breathed  against  the  sky  ! 
Those  volumes  of  cloud  along  the  west,  through  which  the  sun 
is  ^oing  down  with  dimmed  and  doubtful  lustre  (as  though  his 
had  been  the  hand  which  put  the  torch  to  such  a  burning)— 
they  are  heavy  with  spicy  odours.     Such  sweet  wonders  of  the 
Eden  woodlands  cannot  but  give  out  sweetness  in  their  dying. 
The  heavens  grow  dusk  and  slumbrous  with  so  much  incense. 
A  dreamy  faintness  from  the  laden  air  weighs  down  the  sense. 
It  seems  time  to  sleep— for  us,  for  all  nature,  to  sleep,  weary  of 
terrestrial  grossness  and  of  mortal  limitation,— to  sleep,  that  all 
may  awake,  made  new ;  and  so,  transformed  divinely  to  the 
first  ideal,  have  divine  existence  only,  and    God  be  all  and 
in  all.     For  God  is  love,  and  when  hope  and  fear  are  dead, 

then   love  is  all. 

Somewhat  thus  did  Gower  describe  his  picture  ;  whereon,  in 
truth,  he  had  expended  no  little  art,— such  a  haze  of  repose, 
and  likewise  of  unreality,  had  he  contrived  to  throw  over  this 
work  of  fancy ;  and  such  a  tone  had  he  given,  both  to  the 
work  of  the  fire  on  the  one  side,  and  to  that  of  the  \vater  on 
the  other.  The  fire  did  not  seem  a  cruel  fire,  nor  the  water  an 
inhospitable  water.  Golden  lines  of  light  from  the  sun,  and 
rose-red  reflections  from  clouds  whose  breasts  were  feathered 
with  fire,  rested  on  the  heads  of  the  waves,  where  the  great 
flood  lay  rocking.  The  very  ruins  of  Paradise,— those  charred 
tree-trunks— those  dusty  river-beds— that  shrivelled  boskage 
and  white  grass,— did  not  look  utterly  forlorn.     Some  of  the 


204  Quietism.  [„.  x 

glassy  walls  still  stood,  shining  like  rubies  in  the  sunset,  and 
glittering  at  their  basements  and  their  gateways  with  solid  falls 
and  pools  of  gold  and  silver,  where  their  rich  adornment  had 
run  down  molten  to  their  feet.  The  Destroyer  was  the 
Purifier;  and  the  waiting  sigh  for  renewal  was  full  of 
trust. 

'  A  better  frontispiece,'  said  Atherton,  '  I  could  not  have 
for  my  poor  paper.  I  might  hare  been  raised  to  a  less  prosaic 
strain,  and  omitted  some  less  relevant  matter,  had  I  been  able 
to  place  your  picture  before  me  while  writing.  For  upon  this 
question  of  disinterested  love,  and  so  of  quietude,  our  mysticism 
now  mainly  turns.  With  Fenelon  and  Madame  Guyon, 
mysticism  hovers  no  longer  on  the  confines  of  pantheism.  It 
deals  less  with  mere  abstractions.  It  is  less  eager  to  have 
everything  which  is  in  part  done  away,  that  the  perfect  may 
come,  even  while  we  are  here.  It  is  more  patient  and  lowly, 
and  will  oftener  use  common  means.  Its  inner  light  is  not 
arrogant— for  submissive  love  is  that  light ;  and  it  flames  forth 
with  no  pretension  to  special  revelations  and  novel  gospels  ; 
neither  does  it  construct  any  inspired  system  of  philosophy. 
It  is  less  feverishly  ecstatic,  less  grossly  theurgic,  than  in  the 
lower  forms  of  its  earlier  history.  Comparative  health  is  in- 
dicated by  the  fact  that  it  aspires  chiefly  to  a  state  of  continu- 
ous resignation,— covets  less  starts  of  transport  and  instanta- 
neous transformations.  It  seeks,  rather,  a  long  and  even  reach 
of  trustful  calm,  which  shall  welcome  joy  and  sorrow  with 
equal  mind, — shall  live  in  the  present,  moment  by  moment, 
passive  and  dependent  on  the  will  of  the  Well-Beloved. 

WiLLOUGHBV.  With  Madame  Guyon,  too,  I  think  the  point 
of  the  old  antithesis  about  which  the  mystics  have  so  much  to 
say  is  shifted ;— I  mean  that  the  contrast  lies,  with  her,  not 
between  Finite  and  Infinite— the  finite  Affirmation,  the  infinite 
Negation,— between  sign  and  thing  signified— between  mode 


c.  I.]  Sdf-snn-cndcving  Love.  205 

and  modelessncss — mediate  and  immediate, — but  simply  be- 
tween God  and  Self. 

Atherton.  And  so  mysticism  grows  somewhat  more  clear, 
and  reduces  itself  to  narrower  compass. 

Gov/ER.  And,  just  as  it  does  so,  is  condemned  by  Rome. 

Atherton.  No  doubt  the  attempt  to  reach  an  unattainable 
disinterestedness  was  less  dangerous  and  less  unwholesome  than 
the  strain  after  superhuman  knowledge  and  miraculous  vision. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  I  have  just  opened  on  one  of  her  verses 
in  Cowper  here,  which  exactly  expresses  what  Mr.  Willoughby 
was  suggesting  : — 

The  love  of  Thee  flows  just  as  much 

As  that  of  ebbing  self  subsides  ; 
Our  hearts,  their  scantiness  is  such, 

Bear  not  the  conflict  of  two  rival  tides. 

Stay  ;  here  is  one  I  marked,  which  goes  further  still.  It  is  an 
allegorical  poem.  Love  has  bidden  her  embark,  and  then 
withdraws  the  vessel, — leaves  her  floating  on  the  rushes  and 
water-flowers,  and  sj^reads  his  wings  for  flight,  heedless  of  her 
cries  and  prayers.     At  last  she  says, — 

Be  not  angry  ;  I  resign 

Henceforth  all  my  will  to  thine  : 

I  consent  ihut  thou  de|3art, 

Though  thine  absence  breaks  my  heart ; 

Go  then,  and  for  ever  too  ; 

All  is  right  that  thou  wilt  do. 

This  was  just  what  Love  intended, 
He  was  now  no  more  offended  ; 
Soon  as  I  became  a  child, 
Love  returned  to  me  and  smiled  : 
Never  strife  shall  more  betide 
'Twixt  the  bridegroom  and  his  bride. 

Atherton.  Yes,  this  is  the  pure  love,  the  holy  indifference 
of  Quietism. 

WiLLOUGHDY.  May  not  this  imaginary  surrender  of  eternal 
happiness — or,  at  least,  the  refusal  to  cherish  ardent  anticipa- 
tions of  heaven,  really  invigorate  our  spiritual  nature,  by  con- 
ceutfating  our  religion  on  ^present  salvation  from  sin  ? 


2o6  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

Atherton.  I  think  it  possibly  may,  where  contemplation  of 
heaven  is  the  resource  of  spiritual  indolence  or  weariness  in 
well-doing, — where  the  mind  is  prone  to  look  forward  to  the 
better  world,  too  much  as  a  place  of  escape  from  the  pains- 
taking, and  difficulty^  and  discipline  of  time.  But  where  the 
hope  of  heaven  is  of  the  true  sort — to  put  it  out  of  sight  is 
grievously  to  weaken,  instead  of  strengthening,  our  position, 
I  think  we  should  all  find,  if  we  tried,  or  were  unhappily  forced 
to  try,  the  experiment  of  sustaining  ourselves  in  a  religion  that 
ignored  tlie  future,  that  we  were  lamentably  enfeebled  in  tv/o 
v/ays.  First  of  all,  by  the  loss  of  a  support — that  heart  and 
courage  which  the  prospect  of  final  victory  gives  to  every  com- 
batant ;  and  then,  secondly,  by  the  immense  drain  of  mental 
energy  involved  in  the  struggle  necessary  to  reconcile  ourselves 
to  that  loss.  There  can  be  no  struggle  so  exhaustive  as  this, 
for  it  is  against  our  nature, — not  as  sin  has  marred  (so  Madame 
Guyon  thought),  but  as  God  has  made  it.  Fearful  must  be  the 
wear  and  tear  of  our  religious  being,  in  its  vital  functions, — 
and  this,  not  to  win,  but  to  abandon  an  advantage.  '  He  that 
hath  this  hope  purifieth  himself.'  So  far  from  being  able  to 
dispense  with  it,  we  find  in  the  hope  of  salvation,  the  helmet  of 
our  Christian  armour.  It  is  no  height  of  Christian  heroism, 
but  presumption  rather,  to  encounter,  bare-headed,  the  on- 
slaughts of  sin  and  sorrow— even  though  the  sword  of  the 
Spirit  may  shine  naked  in  our  right  hand.  But  we  should,  at 
the  same  time,  remember  that  our  celestial  citizenship  is 
realised  hy present  hcavenly-mindedness  : — a  height  and  purity 
of  temper,  however,  which  grows  most  within  as  we  have  the 
habit  of  humbly  regarding  that  kingdom  as  a  place  prepared 
for  us.  We  should  not  limit  our  foretastes  of  heaven  to 
intervals  of  calm.  We  may  often  be  growing  most  heavenly 
amid  scenes  most  unlike  heaven. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  In  persecution,  for  example. 


,.]  Madame  Guy  on— her  early  Life.  207 


Atherton.  We  should  not  think  that  we  catch  its  glory 
only  in  happy  moments  of  contemplation,  though  such  musing 
may  well  have  its  permitted  place.  Let  us  say  also  that  every 
victory  over  love  of  ease,  over  discontent,  over  the  sluggish 
coldness  of  the  heart,  over  reluctance  to  duty,  over  unkindly 
tempers,  is  in  fact  to  us  an  earnest  and  foretaste  of  that  heaven, 
where  we  shall  actively  obey  with  glad  alacrity,  where  we  shall 
he  pleased  in  all  things  with  all  that  pleases  God,  where  glorious 
powers  shall  be  gloriously  developed,  undeadened  by  any 
lethargy,  unhindered  by  any  painful  limitation  ;  and  where 
that  Love,  which  here  has  to  contend  for  very  life,  and  to  do 
battle  for  its  rightful  enjoyments,  shall  possess  us  wholly,  and 
rejoice  and  reign  among  all  the  fellowships  of  the  blest  through- 
out the  everlasting  day. 

GowER.  But  all  this  while  we  have  been  very  rude.  Here 
is  Madame  Guyon  come  to  tell  us  her  story,  and  we  have  kept 
her,  I  don't  know  how  long,  standing  at  the  door. 

Kate.  Yes,  let  us  hear  your  paper  first,  Mr.  Atherton  :  we 
can  talk  afterwards,  you  know. 

So  Atherton  began  to  read. 

QVIETISM. 

Part  I. — Madame  Guy  on. 
I, 
Jeanne  Marie  Bouvieres  de  la  Mothe  was  born  on  Easter- 
eve,  April  13th,  1648,  at  Montargis.  Her  sickly  childhood 
was' distinguished  by  precocious  imitations  of  that  religious  life 
which  was  held  in  honour  by  every  one  around  her.  She  loved 
to  be  dressed  in  the  habit  of  a  little  nun.  When  little  more 
than  four  years  old,  she  longed  for  martyrdom.  Her  school- 
fellows placed  her  on  her  knees  on  a  white  cloth,  flourished  a 
sabre  over  her  head,  and  told  her  to  prepare  for  the  stroke.  A 
shout  of  triumphant  laughter  followed  the  failure  of  the  child's 


2o8  Quietism.  [»•  x. 

courage.  She  was  neglected  by  her  mother,  and  knocked  about 
by  a  spoiled  brother.  When  not  at  school,  she  was  the  pet  or 
the  victim  of  servants.  She  began  to  grow  irritable  from  ili- 
treatment,  and  insincere  from  fear.  When  ten  years  old,  she 
found  a  Bible  in  her  sick  room,  and  read  it,  she  says,  from 
morning  to  night,  committing  to  memory  the  historical  parts. 
Some  of  the  writings  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  and  the  Life  of 
Madame  de  Chantal,  fell  in  her  way.  The  latter  work  proved  a 
^  powerful  stimulant.  There  she  read  of  humiliations  and  aus- 
terities numberless,  of  charities  lavished  with  a  princely  muni- 
ficence, of  visions  enjoyed  and  miracles  wrought  in  honour  of 
those  saintly  virtues,  and  of  the  intrepidity  with  which  the 
famous  enthusiast  wrote  with  a  red-hot  iron  on  her  bosom,  the 
characters  of  the  holy  name  Jesus.  The  girl  of  twelve  years 
old  was  bent  on  copying  these  achievements  on  her  little  scale. 
She  relieved,  taught,  and  waited  on  the  poor;  and,  for  lack  of 
the  red-hot  iron  or  the  courage,  sewed  on  to  her  breast  with  a 
large  needle  a  piece  of  paper  containing  the  name  of  Christ. 
She  even  forged  a  letter  to  secure  her  admission  to  a  conventual 
establishment  as  a  nun.  The  deceit  was  immediately  detected  ; 
but  the  attempt  shows  how  much  more  favourable  was  the  reli- 
gious atmosphere  in  which  she  grew  up,  to  the  prosperity  of 
convents  than  to  the  inculcation  of  truth. 

With  ripening  years,  religion  gave  place  to  vanity.  Her 
handsome  person  and  brilliant  conversational  powers  fitted  her 
to  shine  in  society.  She  began  to  love  dress,  and  feel  jealous 
of  rival  beauties.  Like  St.  Theresa,  at  the  same  age,  she  sat 
up  far  into  the  night,  devouring  romances.  Her  autobiography 
records  her  experience  of  the  mischievous  effects  of  those  tales 
of  chivalry  and  passion.  When  nearly  sixteen,  it  was  arranged 
that  she  should  marry  the  wealthy  M.  Guyon.  This  gentleman, 
whom  she  had  seen  but  three  days  before  her  marriage,  was 
twenty-two  years  older  than  herself. 


c.  I.]        Uladamc  Guy  on — Jicr  itnJiafpy  Alarriagc.         209 

The  faults  she  had  were  of  no  very  grave  description,  but  her 
husband's  house  was  destined  to  prove  for  several  years  a  piti- 
less school  for  their  correction.  He  lived  with  his  mother,  a 
vulgar  and  hard-hearted  woman.  Her  low  and  penurious  habits 
were  unaffected  by  their  wealth ;  and  in  the  midst  of  riches,  she 
was  happiest  scolding  in  the  kitchen  about  some  farthing  matter. 
She  appears  to  have  hated  Madame  Guyon  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  narrow  mind.  M.  Guyon  loved  his  wife  after  his  selfish 
sort.  If  she  was  ill,  he  was  inconsolable ;  if  any  one  spoke 
against  her,  he  flew  into  a  passion;  yet,  at  the  instigation  of  his 
mother,  he  was  continually  treating  her  with  harshness.  An 
artful  servant  girl,  who  tended  his  gouty  leg,  was  permitted 
daily  to  mortify  and  insult  his  wife.  Madame  Guyon  had  been 
accustomed  at  home  to  elegance  and  refinement, — beneath  her 
husband's  roof  she  found  politeness  contemned  and  rebuked  as 
pride.  When  she  spoke,  she  had  been  listened  to  with  attention, 
— now  she  could  not  open  her  mouth  without  contradiction. 
She  was  charged  with  presuming  to  show  them  how  to  talk, 
reproved  for  disputatious  forwardness,  and  rudely  silenced. 
She  could  never  go  to  see  her  parents  without  having  bitter 
speeches  to  bear  on  her  return.  They,  on  their  part,  reproached 
her  with  unnatural  indifference  towards  her  own  family  for  the 
sake  of  her  new  connexions.  The  ingenious  malignity  of  her 
mother-in-law  filled  every  day  with  fresh  vexations.  The  high 
spirit  of  the  young  girl  was  completely  broken.  She  had 
already  gained  a  reputation  for  cleverness  and-  wit — now  she 
sat  nightmared  in  company,  nervous,  stiff,  and  silent,  the 
picture  of  stupidity.  At  every  assemblage  of  their  friends  she 
was  marked  out  for  some  affront,  and  every  visitor  at  the 
house  was  instructed  in  the  catalogue  of  her  offences.  Sad 
thoughts  would  come — how  different  might  all  this  have  been 
Jiad  she  been  suffered  to  select  some  other  suitor  !  But  it  was 
too  late.     The  brief  romance  of  her  life  was  gone  indeed. 

VOL.  II.  B 


210  Quiet  ism.  [n.  x. 

There  was  no  friend  into  whose  heart  she  could  pour  her 
sorrows.  Meanwhile,  she  was  indefatigable  in  the  discharge 
of  every  duty,— she  endeavoured  by  kindness,  by  cheerful  for- 
bearance, by  returning  good  for  evil,  to  secure  some  kinder 
treatment— she  was  ready  to  cut  out  her  tongue  that  she  might 
m?ke  no  passionate  reply— she  reproached  herself  bitterly  for 
tlie  tears  she  could  not  hide.  But  these  coarse,  hard  natures 
were  not  so  to  be  won.  Her  magnanimity  surprised,  but  did 
not  soften  minds  to  which  it  was  utterly  mcomprehensible.' 

Her  best  course  would  have  been  self-assertion  and  war  to  the 
very  utmost.  She  would  have  been  justified  in  demanding  her 
right  to  be  mistress  in  her  own  house — in  declaring  it  incom- 
patible with  the  obligations  binding  upon  either  side,  that  a 
third  party  should  be  permitted  to  sow  dissension  between  a 
husband  and  his  wife— in  putting  her  husband,  finally,  to  the 
choice  between  his  wife  and  his  mother.  M.  Guyon  is  the  type 
of  a  large  class  of  men.  They  stand  high  in  the  eye  of  the 
world — and  not  altogether  undeservedly— as  men  of  principle. 
But  their  domestic  circle  is  the  scene  of  cruel  wrongs  from 
want  of  reflection,  from  a  selfish,  passionate  inconsiderateness. 
They  would  be  shocked  at  the  charge  of  an  act  of  barbarity 
towards  a  stranger,  but  they  will  inflict  years  of  mental  distress 
on  those  most  near  to  them,  for  want  of  decision,  self-control, 
and  some  conscientious  estimate  of  what  their  home  duties 
truly  involve.  Had  the  obligations  he  neglected,  the  wretched- 
ness of  which  he  was  indirectly  the  author,  been  brought  fairly 
before  the  mind  of  M.  Guyon,  he  would  probably  have  deter- 
mined  on  the  side  of  justice,  and  a  domestic  revolution  would 
have  been  the  consequence.  But  Madame  Guyon  conceived 
herself  bound  to  sufter,  in  silence.     Looking  back  on  those 

See  the  first  six  chapters  of  her  1720.  I  have  used  an  anonymous 
Autobiography.  This  life  was  pub-  English  translation,  published  at  Bris- 
libhed   posthumously  at   Cologne,    in      tol,  in  1772. 


c.  I.]  God  Within.  2ii 


miserable  da3's,  she  traced  a  father's  care  in  the  discipUne  she 
endured.  Providence  had  transplanted  Self  from  a  garden 
where  it  expanded  under  love  and  praise,  to  a  highway  where 
every  passing  foot  might  trample  it  in  the  dust. 

A  severe  illness  brought  her  more  than  once  to  the  brink  of 
the  grave.  She  heard  of  her  danger  with  indifterence,  for  life 
had  no  attraction.  Heavy  losses  befel  the  family — she  could 
feel  no  concern.  To  end  her  days  in  a  hospital  was  even  an 
agreeable  anticipation.  Poverty  and  disgrace  could  bring  no 
change  which  would  not  be  more  tolerable  than  her  present 
suffering.  She  laboured,  wdth  little  success,  to  find  comfort  in 
religious  exercises.  She  examined  herself  rigidly,  confessed  with 
frequency,  strove  to  subdue  all  care  about  her  personal  appear- 
ance, and  while  her  maid  arranged  her  hair — how,  she  cared  not 
-—was  lost  in  the  study  of  Thomas  a  Kempis.  At  length  she 
consulted  a  Franciscan,  a  holy  man,  who  had  just  emerged  from 
a  five  years'  solitude.  '  Madame,'  said  he, '  you  are  disappointed 
and  perplexed  because  you  seek  without  what  you  have  within. 
Accustom  yourself  to  seek  God  in  your  heart,  and  you  will 

find  Him.' 

II. 

These  words  of  the  old  Franciscan  embody  the  response 
which  has  been  uttered  in  every  age  by  the  oracle  of  mysticism. 
It  has  its  truth  and  its  falsehood,  as  men  understand  it.  There 
is  a  legend  of  an  artist,  who  was  about  to  carve  from  a  piece 
of  costly  sandal-wood  an  image  of  the  Madonna ;  but  the 
material  was  intractable — his  hand  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
skill — he  could  not  approach  his  ideal.  When  about  to  relin- 
quish his  efforts  in  despair,  a  voice  in  a  dream  bade  him  shape 
the  figure  from  the  oak-block  which  was  about  to  feed  his 
hearth.  He  obeyed,  and  produced  a  masterpiece.  This  story 
represents  the  truth  which  mysticism  upholds  when  it  appears 
as  the  antagonist  of  superstitious   externalism.     The  materials 


2 1 2  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

of  religious  happiness  lie,  as  it  were,  near  at  hand — among 
afiections  and  desires  which  are  homely,  common,  and  of  the 
fireside.  Let  the  right  direction,  the  heavenly  influence,  be 
received  irora  without ;  and  heaven  is  regarded  with  the  love 
of  home,  and  home  sanctified  by  the  hope  of  heaven.  The 
far-letched  costliness  of  outward  works — the  restless,  selfish 
bargaining  with  asceticism  and  with  priestcraft  for  a  priceless 
heaven,  can  never  redeem  and  renew  a  soul  to  peace.  But 
mysticism  has  not  stopped  here ;  it  takes  a  step  farther,  and 
that  step  is  lalse.  It  would  seclude  the  soul  too  much  from 
the  external ;  and,  to  dee  it  from  a  snare,  removes  a  necessary 
help.  Like  some  oversliadowing  tree,  it  hides  the  rising  plant 
from  the  ijrce  of  storms,  but  it  also  intercepts  the  appointed 
sunshine — it  protects,  but  it  deprives — and  beneath  its  boughs 
hardy  weeds  have  grown  more  vigorously  than  precious  grain. 
Removing,  more  or  less,  the  counterpoise  of  the  letter,  in  its 
zeal  lor  the  spirit,  it  promotes  an  intense  and  morbid  self-con- 
sciousness. Roger  North  tells  us  that  when  he  and  his  brother 
stood  on  the  top  oi  the  Monument,  it  was  difficult  for  them  to 
persuade  themselves  that  their  weight  would  not  throw  down 
the  building.  The  dizzy  elevation  of  the  mystic  produces 
sometimes  a  similar  overweaning  sense  of  personality. 

Often  instead  of  rising  above  the  infirmities  of  our  nature, 
and  the  common  laws  ot  Hie,  the  mystic  becomes  the  sport  of 
the  idlest  phantasy,  the  victim  oi  the  most  humiliating  reaction. 
The  excited  and  overwrought  temperament  mistakes  every 
vibration  ot  the  fevered  nerves  lor  a  manifestation  from  with- 
out ;  as  in  the  solitude,  the  silence,  and  the  glare  of  a  great 
desert,  travellers  have  seemed  to  hear  distinctly  the  church 
bells  01  their  native  village.  In  such  cases  an  extreme  suscep- 
tibility of  the  organ,  induced  by  peculiarities  ot  cUmate,  gives 
to  a  mere  conception  or  memory  the  power  ot  an  actual  sound  ; 
and,  in  a  similar  way,  the  mystic  has  often  both  tempted  and 


5.  I.]  Spiritual  'joy.  213 

enraptured  himseU— his  own  breath  has  made  both  the  'airs 
from  heaven,'  and  the  '  blasts  uom  hell ; '  and  the  attempt  to 
annihilate  Self  has  ended  at  last  in  leaving  nothing  but  Selr' 
behind.  Wlien  the  tide  o:  enthusiasm  has  ebbed,  and  the 
channel  has  become  dry,  simply  because  humanity  cannot 
long  endure  a  strain  so  excessive,  then  that  magician  and 
master  of  legerdemain,  the  Fancy,  is  summoned  to  recal,  to 
eke  out,  or  to  interpret  the  mystical  experience  ;  then  that 
fantastic  acrobat.  Affectation,  is  admitted  to  play  its  tricks- 
just  as,  when  the  waters  of  the  Nile  are  withdrawn,  the  canals 
of  Cairo  are  made  the  stage  on  which  the  jugglers  exhibit  their 
feats  of  skill  to  the  crowds  on  either  bank. 

III. 

To  return  to  Madame  Guyon.  From  the  hour  of  that 
interview  with  the  Franciscan  she  was  a  mystic.  The  secret 
of  the  interior  life  flashed  upon  her  in  a  moment.  She  had 
been  starving  in  the  midst  of  fulness  ;  God  was  near,  not  far 
off;  the  kingdom  of  heaven  was  within  her.  The  love  of 
God  took  possession  of  her  soul  with  an  inexpressible  happi- 
ness. Beyond  question,  her  heart  apprehended,  in  that  joy, 
the  great  truth  that  God  is  love — that  He  is  more  ready  to 
forgive,  than  we  to  ask  forgiveness — that  He  is  not  an  austere 
being  whose  regard  is  to  be  purchased  by  rich  gifts,  tears,  and 
penance.  This  emancipating,  sanctifying  belief  became  the 
foundation  of  her  religion.  She  raised  on  this  basis  of  true 
spirituality  a  mystical  superstructure,  in  which  there  was  some 
hay  and  stubble,  but  the  corner  stone  had  first  been  rightly 
laid,  never  to  be  removed  from  its  place. 

Prayer,  which  had  before  been  so  difficult,  was  now  delight- 
ful and  indispensable  ;  hours  passed  away  like  moments — she 
could  scarcely  cease  from  praying.  Her  trials  seemed  great 
no  longer  ;  her  inward  joy  consumed,  like  a  fire,  the  reluctance, 


^^4  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

the  murmur,  and  the  sorrow,  which  had  their  birth  in  self.  A 
spirit  of  confiding  peace,  a  sense  of  rejoicing  possession,  per- 
vaded all  her  days.  God  was  continually  present  with  her,  and 
she  seemed  completely  yielded  up  to  God.  She  appeared  to 
feel  herself,  and  to  behold  all  creatures,  as  immersed  in  the 
gracious  omnipresence  of  the  Most  High.  In  her  adoring 
contemplation  of  the  Divine  presence,  she  found  herself  fre- 
quently unable  to  employ  any  words,  or  to  pray  for  any  particular 
blessings.^  She  was  then  little  more  than  twenty  years  of  age. 
The  ardour  of  her  devotion  would  not  suffer  her  to  rest  even 
here.  It  appeared  to  her  that  self  was  not  yet  sufficiently 
suppressed.  There  were  some  things  she  chose  as  pleasant, 
other  things  she  avoided  as  painful.  She  was  possessed  with 
the  notion  that  every  choice  which  can  be  referred  to  self  is 
selfish,  and  therefore  criminal. 

On  this  principle,  ^sop's  traveller,  who  gathered  his  cloak 
about  him  in  the  storm,  and  relinquished  it  in  the  sunshine, 
should  be  stigmatized  as  a  selfish  man,  because  he  thought  only 
of  his  own  comfort,  and  did  not  remember  at  the  moment  his 
family,  his  country,  or  his  Maker.  It  is  not  regard  for  self 
which  makes  us  selfish,  but  regard  for  self  to  the  exclusion  of 
due  regard  for  others.  But  the  zeal  of  Madame  Guyon  blinded 
her  to  distinctions  such  as  these.  She  became  filled  with  an 
insatiable  desire  of  suffering.^  She  resolved  to  force  herself  to 
what  she  disliked,  and  deny  herself  what  was  gratifying,  that 
the  mortified  senses  might  at  last  have  no  choice  whatever. 
She  displayed  the  most  extraordinary  power  of  will  in  her 
efforts  to  annihilate  her  will.  Every  day  she  took  the  discipline 
with  scourges  pointed  with  iron.  She  tore  her  flesh  with 
brambles,  thorns,  and  nettles.  Her  rest  was  almost  destroyed 
by  the  pain  she  endured.  She  was  in  very  delicate  health, 
continually  falling,  ill,  and  could  eat  scarcely  anything.     Yet 

=>  See  Note  on  p.  238.  3  Aiitobiog7-aphy,  chap.  x. 


.1.1  isolation  and  Abstraction.  215 

she  forced  herself  to  eat  what  was  most  nauseous  to  her  ; 
she  often  kept  wormwood  in  her  mouth,  and  put  coloquintida 
in  her  food,  and  when  she  walked  she  placed  stones  in  her 
shoes.  If  a  tooth  ached  she  would  bear  it  without  seeking 
a  remedy;  when  it  ached  no  longer,  she  would  go  and  have 
it  extracted.  She  imitated  Madame  Chantal  in  dressing  the 
sores  of  the  poor,  and  ministering  to  the  wants  of  the  sick. 
On  one  occasion  she  found  that  slie  could  not  seek  the 
indulgence  offered  by  her  Church  for  remitting  some  of  the 
pains  of  purgatory.  At  that  time  she  felt  no  doubt  concerning 
the  power  of  the  priest  to  grant  such  absolution,  but  she 
thought  it  wrong  to  desire  to  escape  any  suffering.  She  was 
afraid  of  resembling  those  mercenary  souls,  who  are  afraid  not 
so  much  of  displeasing  God,  as  of  the  penalties  attached  to 
sin.  She  was  too  much  in  earnest  for  visionary  sentimentalism. 
Her  efforts  manifest  a  serious  practical  endeavour  after  that 
absolute  disinterestedness  which  she  erroneously  thought  both 
attainable  and  enjoined.  She  was  far  from  attaching  any 
expiatory  value  to  these  acts  of  voluntary  mortification,  they 
were  a  means  to  an  end.  When  she  believed  that  end  attained, 
in  the  entire  death  of  self,  she  relinquished  them. 

IV. 

Situated  as  Madame  Guyon  was  now,  her  mind  had  no  re 
source  but  to  collapse  upon  itself,  and  the  feelings  so  painfully 
pent  up  became  proportionately  vehement.  She  found  a  friend 
in  one  Mere  Granger ;  but  her  she  could  see  seldom,  mostly 
by  stealth.  An  ignorant  confessor  joined  her  mother-in-law 
and  husband  in  the  attempt  to  hinder  her  from  prayer  and 
religious  exercises.  She  endeavoured  in  everything  to  please 
her  husband,  but  he  complained  that  she  loved  God  so  much 
she  had  no  love  left  for  him.  She  was  watched  day  and  night  j 
she  dared  not  stir  from  her  mother-in-law's  chamber  or  her 


2i6  Q,iiictisnL  [d.  x. 

husband's  bedside.  If  she  took  her  work  apart  to  the  window, 
they  followed  her  there,  to  see  that  she  was  not  in  prayer. 
When  her  husband  went  abroad,  he  forbade  her  to  pray  in  his 
absence.  The  affections  even  of  her  child  were  taken  from 
her,  and  the  boy  was  -  taught  to  disobey  and  insult  his  mother. 
Thus  utterly  alone,  Madame  Guyon,  while  apparently  engaged 
in  ordinary  matters,  was  constantly  in  a  state  of  abstraction ; 
her  mind  was  elsewhere,  rapt  in  devout  contemplation.  She 
was  in  company  Avithout  hearing  a  word  that  was  said.  She 
went  out  into  the  garden  to  look  at  the  flowers,  and  could 
bring  back  no  account  of  them,  the  eye  of  her  reverie  could 
mark  nothing  actually  visible.  When  playing  at  piquet,  to 
oblige  her  husband,  this  '  interior  attraction'  was  often  more 
powerfully  felt  than  even  when  at  church.  In  her  Autobio- 
graphy she  describes  her  experience  as  follows  : — 

'  The  spirit  of  prayer  was  nourished  and  increased  from  their 
contrivances  and  endeavours  to  disallow  me  any  time  for 
practising  it.  I  loved  without  motive  or  reason  for  loving;  for 
nothing  passed  in  my  head,  but  much  in  the  innermost  of  my 
soul.  I  thought  not  about  any  recompence,  gift,  or  favour,  or 
anything  which  regards  the  lover.  The  Well-beloved  was  the 
only  object  which  attracted  my  heart  wholly  to  Himself  I 
could  not  contemplate  His  attributes.  I  knew  nothing  else  but 
to  love  and  to  suffer.  Oh,  ignorance  more  truly  learned  than 
any  science  of  the  Doctors,  since  it  so  well  taught  me  Jesus 
Christ  crucified,  and  brought  me  to  be  in  love  with  His  holy 
cross  !  In  its  beginning  I  was  attracted  with  so  much  force, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  my  head  was  going  to  join  my  heart.  I 
found  that  insensibly  my  body  bent  in  spite  of  me.  I  did  not 
then  comprehend  from  whence  it  came  ;  but  have  learned 
since,  that  as  all  passed  in  the  will,  which  is  the  sovereign  of 
the  powers,  that  attracted  tiie  others  after  it,  and  reunited  them 
in  God,  their  divine  centre  and  sovereign  happiness.      And  as 


J,  ji  spiritual  Experiences.  217 

these  powers  were  then  unaccustomed  to  be  united,  it  required 
the  more  violence  to  effect  that  union.  Wherefore  it  was  the 
more  perceived.  Afterwards  it  became  so  strongly  riveted  as 
to  seem  to  be  quite  natural.  This  was  so  strong  that  I  could 
have  wished  to  die,  in  order  to  be  inseparably  united  without 
any  interstice  to  Him  who  so  powerfully  attracted  my  heart.  As 
all  passed  in  the  will,  the  imagination  and  the  understanding 
being  absorbed  in  it,  in  a  union  of  enjoyment,  I  knew  not  what 
to  say,  having  never  read  or  heard  of  such  a  state  as  I  ex- 
perienced ;  for,  before  this,  I  had  known  nothing  of  the  opera- 
tions of  God  in  souls.  I  had  only  read  Fhilothta  (written  by 
St.  Francis  de  Sales),  with  the  Imitation  of  Christ  (by  Thomas 
a  Kempis),  and  the  Holy  Scriptures  ;  also  the  Spiritual  Combat, 
which  mentions  none  of  these  things.'  * 

In  this  extract  she  describes  strange  physical  sensations  as 
accompanying  her  inward  emotion.  The  intense  excitement  of 
the  soul  assumes,  in  her  over-strained  and  secluded  imagination, 
the  character  of  a  corporeal  seizure.  The  sickly  frame,  so 
morbidly  sensitive,  appears  to  participate  in  the  supernatural 
influences  communicated  to  the  spirit.  On  a  subsequent  oc- 
casion, she  speaks  of  herself  as  so  oppressed  by  the  fulness  of 
the  Divine  manifestations  imparted  to  her,  as  to  be  compelled 
to  loosen  her  dress.  More  than  once  some  of  those  who  sat 
next  her  imagined  that  they  perceived  a  certain  marvellous 
efflux  of  grace  proceeding  from  her  to  themselves.  She  believed 
that  many  persons,  for  whom  she  was  interceding  with  great 
fervour,  were  sensible  at  the  time  of  an  extraordinary  gracious 
influence  instantaneously  vouchsafed,  and  that  her  spirit  com- 
municated mysteriously, '  in  the  Lord,'  with  the  spirits  of  those 
dear  to  her  when  far  away.  She  traced  a  special  intervention 
of  Providence  in  the  fact,  that  she  repeatedly  '  felt  a  strong 
draught  to  the  door'  just  when  it  was  necessary  to  go  out  to 

♦  Aulol'io^iMp/iy,  chap.  xii.  p.  £7. 


"  Quietism.  r     ^ 

, ~^  \r,.  X. 

receive  a  secret  letter  from  her  (v[enZMh^^G^^^^^^r~([^^.^ 
ram  should  have  held  up  precisely  when  she  was"oi/her  road 
to  or  from  massj  and  that  at  the  very  intervals  when  she  was 
able  to  steal  out  to  hear  it,  some  priest  was  always  found  per- 
formnig  or  ready  to  perform  the  service,  though  at  a  most 
unusual  hour.^ 


V. 


Iinagmary  as  all  this  may  have  been,  the  Church  of  Rome 
at  least,  had  no  right  to  brand  with  the  stigma  of  extravagance 
any  such  transference  of  the  spiritual  to  the  sensuous,  of  the 
metaphysical  to  the  physical.     The  fancies  of  Madame  Guyon 
in  this  respect  are  innocent  enough  in  comparison  with  the 
monstrosities  devised  by  Romish  marvel-mongers  to  exalt  her 
saints  withal     St.  Philip  Neri  was  so  inflamed  with  love  to 
God  as  to  be  insensible  to  all  cold,  and  burned  with  such  a  fire 
of   devotion  that  his  body,   divinely  feverish,   could  not  be 
cooled  by  exposure  to  the  wildest  winter  night.     For  two-and 
fifty  years  he  was  the  subject  of  a  supernatural  palpitation, 
which  kept  his  bed  and  chair,  and  everything  moveable  about 
him,  m  a  perpetual  tremble.     For  that  space  of  time  his  breast 
was  miraculously  swollen  to  the  thickness  of  a  fist  above  his 
heart.     On  a  post-mortem  examination  of  the  holy  corpse    it 
was  found  that  two  of  the  ribs  had  been  broken,  to  allow  'the 
sacred  ardour  of  his  heart  more  room  to  play!     The  doctors 
swore  solemnly  that  the  phenomenon  could  be  nothin-  less 
than  a  miracle.     A  divine  hand  had  thus  literally  '  enlarged  the 
heart'  of  the  devotee.^      St.  Philip  enjoyed,  with  many  other 
saints,  the  privilege  of  being  miraculously  elevated  into  the  air 
by  the  fervour  of  his  heavenward  aspirations.     The  Ada  Sanc- 
torum relates  how  Ida  of  Louvain-seized  with  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  present  her  gifts  with  the  Wise  Men  to  the  child 
Jesus— received,   on   the  eve  of  the  Three  Kings,    the   dis- 

"  See  second  Note  on  p.  238.     6  Gorres,  Die  ChristUche  Mystlk,  b.  iv.  c.  i. 


.]  MiraciitoHS  StudUng  and  Smell iiig.  2  i  9 


tinguished  favour  of  being  permitted  to  swell  to  a  terrific  size, 
and  then  gradually  to  return  to  her  original  dimensions.  On 
another  occasion,  she  was  gratified  by  being  thrown  down  in 
the  street  in  an  ecstacy,  and  enlarging  so  that  her  horror-stricken 
attendant  had  to  embrace  her  with  all  her  might  to  keep  her 
(lom  bursting.  The  noses  of  eminent  saints  havel)een  endowed 
with  so  subtile  a  sense  that  they  have  detected  the  stench  of 
concealed  sins,  and  enjoyed,  as  a  literal  fragrance,  the  well- 
known  odour  of  sanctity.  St.  Philip  Neri  was  frequently 
obliged  to  hold  his  nose  and  turn  away  his  head  when  con- 
fessing very  wicked  people.  In  walking  the  streets  of  some 
depraved  Italian  town,  the  poor  man  must  have  endured  all 
the  pains  of  Coleridge  in  Cologne,  where,  he  says, 

'  I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 
All  well-defined,  and  several  stinks!' 

Maria  of  Oignys  received  what  theurgic  mysticism  calls  the  gift 
of  jubilation.  For  three  days  and  nights  upon  the  point  of 
death,  she  sang  without  remission  her  ecstatic  swan-song,  at  the 
top  of  a  voice  whose  hoarseness  was  miraculously  healed.  She 
felt  as  though  the  wing  of  an  angel  were  spread  upon  her  breast, 
thrilling  her  heart  with  the  rapture,  and  pouring  from  her  lips 
the  praises,  of  the  heavenly  wodd.  With  the  melodious  modu- 
lation of  an  inspired  recitative,  she  descanted  on  the  mysteries 
of  the  Trinity  and  the  incarnation — improvised  profound  expo- 
sitions of  the  Scripture— invoked  the  saints,  and  interceded  for 
lier  friends.^  A  nun  who  visited  Catharina  Ricci  in  her  ecstasy, 
saw  with  amazement  her  face  transformed  into  the  Ukeness  of 
the  Redeemer's  countenance.  St.  Hildegard,  in  the  enjoyment 
and  description  of  her  visions,  and  in  the  utterance  of  her  pro- 
phecies, was  inspired  with  a  complete  theological  terminology 
hitherto  unknown  to  mortals.    A  glossary  of  the  divine  tongue 

'i  Gorres,  Die  Clirisilichc  Mysiik,  pp.  70-73. 


-20  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

was  long  preserved  among  her  manuscripts  at  Wiesbaden.'     It 
is  recorded  in  the  Hfe  of  St.   Veronica  of  Binasco,  that  she  re- 
ceived the  miraculous  gift  of  tears  in  a  measure  so  copious,  that 
the  spot  where  she  knelt  appeared  as  though  a  jug  of  water  had 
been  overset  there.     She  was  obliged  to  have  an  earthen  vessel 
ready  in  her  cell  to  receive  the  supernatural  efflux,  which  filled 
it  frequently  to  the  weight  of  several  Milan  pounds  !     Ida  of 
Nivelles,  when  in  an  ecstasy  one  day,  had  it  revealed  to  her 
that  a  dear  friend  was  at  the  same  moment  in  the  same  con- 
dition.    The  friend  also  was  simultaneously  made  aware  that 
Ida  was  immersed  in  the  same  abyss  of  divine  light  with  her- 
self.  Thenceforward  they  were  as  one  soul  in  the  Lord,  and  the 
Virgin  Mary  appeared  to  make  a  third  in  the  saintly  fellowship. 
Ida  was  frequently  enabled  to  communicate  with  spiritual  per- 
sonages, without  words,  after  the  manner  of  angelic  natures. 
On  one  occasion,  when  at  a  distance  from  a  priest  to  whom  she 
was  much  attached,  both  she  and  the  holy  man  were  entranced 
at  the  same  time ;  and,  when  wrapt  to  heaven,  he  beheld  her  in 
the  presence  of  Christ  at  whose  command  she  communicated 
to  him,  by  a  spiritual  kiss,  a  portion  of  the  grace  with  which 
she  herself  had  been  so  richly  endowed.     To  Clara  of  Mont- 
faucon  allusion  has  already  been  made.    In  the  right  side  of  her 
heart  was  found,  completely  formed,  a  little  figure  of  Christ  upon 
the  cross,  about  the  size  of  a  thumb.     On  the  left,  under  what 
resembled  the  bloody  cloth,  lay  the  instruments  of  the  passion 
—the  crown  of  thorns,  the  nails,  &c.     So  sharp  was  the  minia- 
ture lance,  that  the  Vicar-General  Berengarius,  commissioned  to 
assist  at  the  examination  by  the  Bishop  of  Spoleto,   pricked 
therewith  his  reverend  finger.     This  marvel  was  surpassed  in 
the  eighteenth  century  by  a  miracle  more  piquant  still.  Veronica 
Giuliani  caused  a  drawing  to  be  made  of  the  many  forms  and 
letters  which  she  declared  had  been  supernaturally  modelled 

8  Specimens  of  the  langu;ige  may  be  seen  in  Gorres,  p.  152. 


c.  I.]  Elevated  Devotion  oj  Christina.  221 

within  her  heart.  To  the  exultation  of  the  faithful— and  the 
everlasting  confusion  of  all  Jews,  Protestants,  and  Turks— a 
post-mortem  examination  disclosed  the  accuracy  of  her  descrip- 
tion, to  the  minutest  point.  There  were  the  sacred  initials  in 
a  large  and  distinct  Roman  character,  the  crown  of  thorns,  two 
flames,  seven  swords,  the  spear,  the  reed,  &c. — all  arranged  just 
as  in  the  diagram  she  had  furnished.'  The  diocese  of  Liege 
was  edified,  in  the  twelfth  century,  by  seeing,  in  the  person  ot 
the  celebrated  Christina  Mirabilis,  how  completely  the  upward 
tendency  of  protracted  devotion  might  vanquish  the  law  oi 
gravitation.  So  strongly  was  she  drawn  away  from  this  gross 
earth,  that  the  difficulty  was  to  keep  her  on  the  ground.  She 
was  continually  flying  up  to  the  tops  of  lonely  towers  and  trees, 
thereto  enjoy  a  rapture  with  the  angels,  and  a  roost  with  the 
birds.  In  the  frequency,  the  elevation,  and  the  duration  of  her 
ascents  into  the  air,  she  surpassed  even  the  high-flown  devotion 
of  St.  Peter  of  Alcantara,  who  was  often  seen  suspended  high 
above  the  fig-trees  which  overshadowed  his  hermitage  at  Badajos 
— his  eyes  upturned,  his  arms  outspread — while  the  servant  sent 
to  summon  him  to  dinner,  gazed  with  open  mouth,  and  sublunary 
cabbage  cooled  below.  The  limbs  of  Christina  lost  the  rigidity, 
as  her  body  lost  the  grossness,  common  to  vulgar  humanity. 
In  her  ecstasies  she  was  contracted  into  the  spherical  lorm— her 
head  was  drawn  inward  and  downward  towards  her  breast,  and 
she  rolled  up  like  a  hedgehog.  When  her  relatives  wished  to 
take  and  secure  her,  they  had  to  employ  a  man  to  hunt  her 
like  a  bird.  Having  started  his  game,  he  had  a  long  run 
across  country  before  he  brought  her  down,  in  a  very  unsports- 
manlike manner,  by  a  stroke  with  his  bludgeon  which  broke 
her  shin.  When  a  few  miracles  had  been  wrought  to  vindicate 
her  aerostatic  mission,  she  was  allowed  to  fly  about  in  peace." 
She  has  occupied,  ever  since,  the  first  place  in  the  ornithology 

9  Gorres,  Die  Christlichc  Myslik,  pp.  465,  &c.         '"  Ih'nL  pp.  532,  &c. 


222 


Qnit'tisni. 


of  Roman-catliolic  saintship.     Suchl^TTfoT^Jf^ThT^I^^ 
v*ch  m,ght  be  collected  in  ..uUitudes  from  Ro„,a^i     e  "d" 
.how.ng  how  that  communion  has  bestowed  its  highest  favot 

."th  'Zr"":"'  ™'"'^"^^'  apprehens-ons-of  sptu3 
t rath  Exuavagant  n,venfons  such  as  these-monstrous  as 
he  adventures  of  Baron  Munchausen,  without  their  wit-have 
been  „„ested  w.th  the  sanction  and  defended  by  the  thundeJ 
of  the  Papal  chatr.  Yet  this  very  Church  of  Rome  incarcerated 
Mohnos  and  Madame  Guyon  as  dangerous  enthusiasts. 

VI. 

Madame  Guyon  had  still  some  lessons  to  learn.     On  a  visit 

o(  I'nn  !?  ^'""T  ,''"'P'°""=  °f  "'"^  P'^*'  ^"d  the  gaieties 
of  St.  Cloud,  revtved  the  old  love  of  seeing  an<l  bein^  seen. 

Dunng  a  tour  m  the  provinces  with  her  husband,  fiatterin, 
vtstts  and  graceful  compliments  everywhere  followed  uch 
beauty  such  accomphshments,  and  such  virtue,  with  a  delicate 
and  ,nto.xtcat,„g  applause.  Vanity-dormant,  but  not  dead- 
awoke  wttlnn  her  for  the  last  time.  She  acknowledged,  with 
bttter  self-reproach,  the  power  of  the  worid,  the  weakness  ;f  her 
own  resolves.  In  the  spiritual  desertion  which  ensued  she 
recogrnsed  the  displeasure  of  her  Lord,  and  was  wretched.  She 

them      T,  '=°"'=^.=°^V"'^  ""^  "■'^"^''■'  ^°"f-'-^.  -"  of 
them.     They  praised  her  while  she  herself  was  filled  with  self- 

loat Inng.  She  esfmated  the  magnitude  of  her  sins  by  the 
greatness  of  the  favour  which  had  been  shown  her.  The  Wand 
worldhness  o  her  religious  advisers  could  not  blind  so  trtte  a 
heart,  or  pacfy  so  wakeful  a  conscience.  She  found  relief  only 
m  a  repentairt  renewal  of  her  self-dedication  to  the  Saviour  i^ 
renouncng  for  ever  the  last  remnant  of  confidence  in  Z 
Strength  of  her  own.  ^ 

It  was  about  this  period  that  she  had  a  remarkable  conver- 
sation  with  a  beggar,  whom  she  found  upon  a  bridge  as  fol- 
lowed by  her  footman,  she  was  walking  one  day  t  2^, 


c.  I.]  Sn/x'/h'ss.  223 

This  singular  mendicant  refused  her  offered  ahns — spoke  to  her 
of  God  and  divine  things — and  then  of  her  own  state,  her  devo- 
tion, her  trials,  and  her  faults.  He  declared  that  God  required 
of  her  not  merely  to  labour  as  others  did  to  secure  their  salva- 
tion, that  they  might  escape  the  pains  of  hell,  but  to  aim  at 
such  perfection  and  purity  in  this  life,  as  to  escape  those  of 
purgatory.  She  asked  him  who  he  was.  He  replied,  that  he  had 
formerly  been  a  beggar,  but  now  was  such  no  more; — mingled 
with  the  stream  of  people,  and  she  never  saw  him  afterwards." 
The  beauty  of  Madame  Guyon  had  cost  her  tender  conscience 
many  a  pang.  She  had  wept  and  prayed  over  that  secret  love 
of  display  which  had  repeatedly  induced  her  to  mingle  with  the 
thoughtless  amusements  of  the  world.  At  four-and-twenty  the 
virulence  of  the  small-pox  released  her  from  that  snare.  M. 
Guyon  was  laid  up  with  the  gout.  She  was  left,  when  the 
disorder  seized  her,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  her  mother-in-law. 
That  inhuman  woman  refused  to  allow  any  but  her  own 
physician  to  attend  her,  yet  for  him  she  would  not  send.  The 
disease,  unchecked,  had  reached  its  height,  when  a  medical 
man,  passing  that  way,  happened  to  call  at  the  house.  Shocked 
at  the  spectacle  Madame  Guyon  presented,  he  was  proceeding 
at  once  to  bleed  her,  expressing,  in  no  measured  terms,  his  in- 
dignation at  the  barbarity  of  such  neglect.  The  mother-in-law 
would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  He  performed  the  operation 
in  spite  of  her  threats  and  invectives,  leaving  her  almost  beside 
herself  with  rage.  That  lancet  saved  the  life  of  Madame  Guyon, 
and  disappointed  the  relative  who  had  hoped  to  see  her  die. 
When  at  length  she  recovered,  she  refused  to  avail  herself  of 
the  cosmetics  generally  used  to  conceal  the  ravages  of  the  dis- 
order. Throughout  her  suffering  she  had  never  uttered  a 
murmur,  or  felt  a  fear.  She  had  even  concealed  the  cruelty 
of  her  mother-in-law.  She  said,  that  if  God  had  designed  her 
to  retain  her  beauty,  He  would  not  have  sent  the  scourge  to 
"  Sec  Note  on  p.  239. 


224  Qiiictisin. 


[b.   X. 


remove  it.  Her  friends  expected  to  find  her  inconsolable— they 
heard  her  speak  only  of  thankfulness  and  joy.  Her  confessor 
reproached  her  with  spiritual  pride.  I'he  affection  of  hei 
husband  was  visibly  diminished;  yet  the  heart  of  Madame 
Guyon  overflowed  with  joy.  It  appeared  to  her,  that  the  God 
to  whom  she  longed  to  be  wholly  given  up  had  accepted  her 
surrender,  and  was  removing  everything  that  might  interpose 
between  Himself  and  her." 

VII. 

The  experience  of  Madame  Guyon,  hitherto,  had  been  such 
as  to  teach  her  the  surrender  of  every  earthly  source  of  gratifi- 
cation or  ground  of  confidence.  Yet  one  more  painful  stage  on 
the  road  to  self-annihilation  remained  to  be  traversed.  She 
must  learn  to  give  up  cheerfully  even  spiritual  pleasures.  In 
the  year  1674,  according  to  the  probable  calculation  of  Mr. 
Upham,  she  was  made  to  enter  what  she  terms  a  state  of  deso- 
lation, which  lasted,  with  little  intermission,  for  nearly  seven 
years."  All  was  emptiness,  darkness,  sorrow.  She  describes 
herself  as  cast  down,  like  Nebuchadnezzar,  from  a  throne  of 
enjoyment,  to  live  among  the  beasts.  'Alas  !'  she  exclaimed, 
'  is  it  possible  that  this  heart,  formerly  all  on  fire,  should  now 
become  like  ice  ?'  The  heavens  were  as  brass,  and  shut  out 
her  prayers  ;  horror  and  trembling  took  the  place  of  tranquillity; 
hopelessly  oppressed  with  guilt,  she  saw  herself  a  victim  destined 
for  hell.  In  vain  for  her  did  the  church  doors  open,  the  holy 
bells  ring,  the  deep-voiced  intonations  of  the  priest  arise  and 
fall,  the  chanted  psalm  ascend  through  clouds  of  azure  wander- 
ing incense.  The  power  and  the  charm  of  the  service  had 
departed.  Of  what  avail  was  music  to  a  burning  wilderness 
athirst  for  rain  ?  Gladly  would  she  have  had  recourse  to  the 
vow,  to  the  pilgrimage,  to  the  penance,  to  any  extremity  of 

^^  Autoliography,  part  t.  c.  xv.  13  See  Note  on  p.  240. 


I.]  Death  of  M.  Guy  on.  225 


self-torture.  She  felt  the  impotence  of  such  remedies  for  such 
anguish.  She  had  no  ear  for  comfort,  no  eye  for  hope,  not 
even  a  voice  for  complaint. 

During  this  period  the  emotional  element  of  religion  in  her 
mind  appears  to  have  suffered  an  almost  entire  suspension. 
Regarding  the  loss  of  certain  feelings  of  delight  as  the  loss  of 
the  divine  favour,  she  naturally  sank  deeper  and  deeper  in 
despondency.  A  condition  by  no  means  uncommon  in  ordi- 
nary Christian  experience  assumed,  in  her  case,  a  morbid 
character.  Our  emotions  may  be  chilled,  or  kindled,  in  ever- 
varying  degrees,  from  innumerable  causes.  We  must  accustom 
ourselves  to  the  habitual  performance  of  duty,  whether  attended 
or  not  with  feelings  of  a  pleasurable  nature.  It  is  generally 
found  that  those  powerful  emotions  of  joy  which  attend,  at 
first,  the  new  and  exalting  consciousness  of  peace  with  God, 
subside  after  awhile.  As  we  grow  in  religious  strength  and 
knowledge,  a  steady  principle  supplies  their  place.  We  are 
refreshed,  from  time  to  time,  by  seasons  of  heightened  joy  and 
confidence,  but  we  cease  to  be  dependent  upon  feeling.  At 
the  same  time,  there  is  nothing  in  Scripture  to  check  our  desire 
forretainingas  constantly  as  possible  a  sober  gladness,  for  finding 
duty  delightful,  and  the  'joy  of  the  Lord'  our  strength.  These 
are  the  truths  which  the  one-sided  and  unqualified  expressions 
of  Madame  Guyon  at  once  exaggerate  and  obscure. 

During  this  dark  interval  M.  Guyon  died.  His  widow 
undertook  the  formidable  task  of  settling  his  disordered  affairs. 
Her  brother  gave  her  no  assistance  ;  her  mother-in-law  harassed 
and  hindered  to  her  utmost ;  yet  Madame  Guyon  succeeded  in 
arranging  a  chaos  of  papers,  and  bringing  a  hopeless  imbroglio 
of  business  matters  into  order,  with  an  integrity  and  a  skill 
which  excited  universal  admiration.  She  felt  it  was  her  duty; 
she  believed  that  Divine  assistance  was  vouchsafed  for  its  dis- 
charge.    Of  business,  she  says,  she  knew  as  little  as  of  Arabic ; 

VOL.  II.  Q 


226  Quietism.  x^  ^ 

but  she  knew  not  what  she  could  accomplish  till  she  tried. 
Minds  far  more  visionary  than  hers  have  evinced  a  still  greater 
aptitude  for  practical  affairs. 

The  22nd  of  July,  1680,  is  celebrated  by  Madame  Guyon 
as  the  happy  era  of  her  deliverance.  A  letter  from  La  Combe 
was  the  instrument  of  a  restoration  as  wonderful,  in  her  eyes, 
as  the  bondage.  This  ecclesiastic  had  been  first  introduced  by 
Madame  Guyon  into  tlie  patli  of  mystical  perfection.  His 
name  is  associated  with  her  own  in  the  early  history  of  the 
Quietist  movement.  He  subsequently  became  her  Director, 
but  was  always  more  her  disciple  than  her  guide.  His  admira- 
tion for  her  amounted  to  a  passion.  Incessant  persecution 
and  long  solitary  imprisonment  combined,  with  devotional  ex- 
travagance, to  cloud  with  insanity  at  last  an  intellect  never 
])owerful.  This  feeble  and  affectionate  soul  perished,  the 
victim  of  Quietism,  and  perhaps  of  love.  It  should  not  be 
forgotten,  that  before  the  inward  condition  of  Madame  Guyon 
changed  thus  remarkably  for  the  better,  her  outward  circum- 
stances had  undergone  a  similar  improvement.  She  lived  now 
in  her  own  house,  with  her  children  about  her.  That  Sycorax,  her 
mother-in-law,  dropped  gall  no  longer  into  her  daily  cup  of  life. 
Domestic  tormentors,  worse  than  the  goblins  which  buffeted  St, 
Antony,  assailed  her  peace  no  more.  An  outer  sky  grown  thus 
serene,  an  air  thus  purified,  may  well  have  contributed  to  chase 
away  the  night  of  the  soul,  and  to  give  to  a  few  words  of  kindly 
counsel  from  La  Combe  the  brightne.=s  of  the  day-star.  Our 
simple-hearted  enthusiast  was  not  so  absolutely  indifferent  as 
she  thought  herself  to  the  changes  of  this  transitory  world. 

VIII. 

Madame  Guyon  had  now  triumphantly  sustained  the  last  of 
those  trials,  which,  like  the  probation  of  the  ancient  mysteries, 
made  the  porcl  •  of  mystical  initiation  a  passage  terrible  with  pain 


I.]  Self -loss  in  God. 


and  peril.  Henceforward,  she  is  the  finished  Quietist :  hence- 
forward, when  she  relates  her  own  experience,  she  describes 
Quietism.  At  times,  when  the  children  did  not  require  her 
care,  she  would  walk  out  into  a  neighbouring  wood,  and  there, 
under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  amidst  the  singing  of  the  birds, 
she  now  passed  as  many  happy  hours  as  she  had  known  months 
of  sorrow.  Her  own  language  will  best  indicate  the  thoughts 
which  occupied  this  peaceful  retirement,  and  exhibit  the  prin- 
ciple there  deepened  and  matured.  She  says  here  in  her  Auto- 
biography— 

'  When  I  had  lost  all  created  supports,  and  even  divine  ones, 
I  then  found  myself  happily  necessitated  to  fall  into  the  pure 
divine,  and  to  fall  into  it  through  all  which  seemed  to  remove 
me  farther  from  it.  In  losing  all  the  gifts,  with  all  their  sup- 
ports, T  found  the  Giver.  Oh,  poor  creatures,  who  pass  along 
all  your  time  in  feeding  on  the  gifts  of  God,  and  think  therein 
to  be  most  fovoured  and  happy,  how  I  pity  you  if  ye  stop 
here,  short  of  the  true  rest,  and  cease  to  go  forward  to  God, 
through  resignation  of  the  same  gifts  !  How  many  pass  all 
their  lives  this  way,  and  think  highly  of  themselves  therein  ! 
There  are  others  who,  being  designed  of  God  to  die  to  them- 
selves, yet  pass  all  their  time  in  a  dying  life,  and  in  inward 
agonies,  without  ever  entering  into  God  through  death  and  total 
loss,  because  they  are  always  willing  to  retain  something  under 
plausible  pretexts,  and  so  never  lose  self  to  the  whole  extent 
of  the  designs  of  God.  Wherefore,  they  never  enjoy  God  in 
his  fulness. — a  loss  that  will  not  perfectly  be  known  until 
another  life.'" 

She  describes  herself  as  having  ceased  from  all  self  originated 
action  and  choice.  To  her  amazement  and  unspeakable  hap- 
piness, it  appeared  as  though  all  such  natural  movement  existed 
no  longer, — a  higher  power  had  displaced  and   occupied  its 

'*  Autcbion-aphy,  part  I.  c.  .\.\viii.  p.  iC3. 

0  2 


228  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

room.  *I  even  perceived  no  more  (she  continues)  the  soul 
which  He  had  formerly  conducted  by  His  rod  and  His  staff, 
because  now  He  alone  appeared  to  me,  my  soul  having  given 
up  its  place  to  Him.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  was  wholly  and 
altogether  passed  into  its  God,  to  make  but  one  and  the  same 
thing  with  Him;  even  as  a  little  drop  of  water  cast  into  the  sea 
receives  the  qualities  of  the  sea.'  She  speaks  of  herself  as  now 
practising  the  virtues  no  longer  as  virtues — that  is,  not  by 
separate  and  constrained  efforts.  It  would  have  required  effort 
not  to  practise  them." 

Somewhat  later  she  expresses  herself  as  follows  : — 
'  The  soul  passing  out  of  itself  by  dying  to  itself  necessarily 
passes  into  its  divine  object.  This  is  the  law  of  its  transition. 
When  it  passes  out  of  self,  which  is  limited,  and  therefore  is  not 
God,  and  consequently  is  evil,  it  necessarily  passes  into  the  un- 
limited and  universal,  which  is  God,  and  therefore  is  the  true 
good.  My  own  experience  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  verification  of 
this.  My  spirit,  disenthralled  from  selfishness,  became  united 
with  and  lost  in  God,  its  Sovereign,  who  attracted  it  more  and 
more  to  Himself  And  this  was  so  much  the  case,  that  I  could 
seem  to  see  and  know  God  only,  and  not  myself.  ....  It  was 
thus  that  my  soul  was  lost  in  God,  who  communicated  to  it 
His  qualities,  having  drawn  it  out  of  all  that  it  had  of  its  own. 

O  happy  poverty,  happy  loss,  happy  nothing,  which 

gives  no  less  than  God  Himself  in  his  own  immensity, — no 
more  circumscribed  to  the  limited  manner  of  the  creation,  but 
always  drawing  it  out  of  that  to  plunge  it  wholly  into  His  divine 
Essence.  Then  the  soul  knows  that  all  the  states  of  self- 
's This  spontaneity  she  I'kens  to  a  Such  also  is  the  teaching,  of  F^nelon 
fountain,  as  compared  with  a  pump  ;  here — the  genuine  doctrine  of  spiritual 
love  in  the  heart  prompts  every  issue  life.  But  the  enemies  of  Quietism  were 
of  life  :  outward  occasions  and  stimu-  not  slow  to  represent  this  '  practising 
lants  are  no  longer  awaited  ;  and  a  the  virtues  no  longer  as  virtues,'  as  a 
glad  inward  readiness  gives  facility  in  dangerous  pretence  for  evading  the 
every  duty,  patience  under  every  trial,      obligations  of  virtue  altogether. 


ex.]  TJie  '  substantial  Word^  22g 

pleasing  visions,  of  intellectual  illuminations,  of  ecstasies  and 
raptures,  of  whatever  value  they  might  once  have  been,  are  now 
rather  obstacles  than  advancements  ;  and  that  they  are  not  of 
service  in  the  state  of  experience  which  is  far  above  them  ; 
because  the  state  which  has  props  or  supports,  which  is  the  case 
with  the  merely  illuminated  and  ecstatic  state,  rests  in  them  in 
some  degree,  and  has  pain  to  lose  them.  But  the  soul  cannot 
arrive  at  the  state  of  which  I  am  now  speaking,   without  the 

loss  of  all  such  supports  and  helps The  soul  is  then 

so  submissive,  and  perhaps  we  may  say  so  passive, — that  is  to 
say,  is  so  disposed  equally  to  receive  from  the  hand  of  God 
either  good  or  evil, — as  is  truly  astonishing.  It  receives  both 
the  one  and  the  other  without  any  selfish  emotions,  letting  them 
flow  and  be  lost  as  they  came.'" 

These  passages  convey  the  substance  of  the  doctrine  which, 
illustrated  and  expressed  in  various  ways,  pervades  all  the 
writings  of  Madame  Guyon.  This  is  the  principle  adorned  by 
the  fancy  of  her  Torrents  and  inculcated  in  the  practical  direc- 
tions of  her  Short  Method  of  Prayer.  Such  is  the  state  to 
which  Quietism  proposes  to  conduct  its  votaries.  In  some 
places,  she  qualifies  the  strength  of  her  expressions, — she  admits 
that  we  are  not  at  all  times  equally  conscious  of  this  absolute  union 
of  the  soul  with  its  centre, — the  lower  nature  may  not  be  always 
insensible  to  distress.  But  the  higher,  the  inmost  element  of 
the  soul  is  all  the  while  profoundly  calm,  and  recollection  pre- 
sently imparts  a  similar  repose  to  the  inferior  nature.  When 
the  soul  has  thus  passed,  as  she  phrases  it,  out  of  the  Nothing 
into  the  All,  when  its  feet  are  set  in  '  a  large  room '  (nothing 
less,  according  to  her  interpretation,  than  the  compass  of  In- 
finity), '  a  substantial  or  essential  word '  is  spoken  there.  It  is 
a  continuous  word — potent,  ineffable,  ever  uttered  witliout 
language.  It  is  the  immediate  unchecked  operation  of  resident 

'*>  Upham,  vol.  I.  pp.  262,  263. 


23O  Quietism.  [b.  s. 

Deity.  What  it  speaks,  it  effects.  It  is  blissful  and  mysterious 
as  the  language  of  heaven.  With  Madame  Guyon,  the  events 
of  Providence  are  God,  and  the  decisions  of  the  sanctified  judg- 
ment respecting  them  are  nothing  less  than  the  immediate  voice 
of  God  in  the  soul.  She  compares  the  nature  thus  at  rest  in 
God  to  a  tablet  on  which  the  divine  hand  wriles, — it  must  be 
held  perfectly  still,  else  the  characters  traced  there  will  be  dis- 
torted or  incomplete.  In  her  very  humility  she  verges  on  the 
audacity  which  arrogates  inspiration.  If  she,  passive  and  help- 
less, really  acts  no  more,  the  impulses  she  feels,  her  words,  her 
actions,  must  all  bear  the  impress  of  an  infallible  divine  sanction. 
It  is  easy  to  see  that  her  speech  and  action — always  well-meant, 
but  frequently  ill-judged, — were  her  own  after  all,  though  no- 
thing of  her  own  seemed  left.  She  acknowledges  that  she  was 
sometimes  at  a  loss  as  to  the  course  of  duty.  She  vvas  guided 
more  than  once  by  random  passages  of  the  Bible,  and  the  casual 
expressions  of  others,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  the  Sortes 
Virgiliance.  and  the  omens  of  ancient  Rome.  Her  knowledge 
of  Scripture,  the  native  power  of  her  intellect,  and  the  tender- 
ness of  her  conscience,  preserved  her  from  pushing  such  a  view 
of  the  inward  light  to  its  worst  extreme. 

IX. 

The  admixture  of  error  in  the  doctrine  which  Madame  Guyon 
was  henceforward  to  preach  with  so  much  self-denying  love,  so 
much  intrepid  constancy,  appears  to  us  to  lie  upon  the  surface. 
The  passages  we  have  given  convey,  unquestionably,  the  idea 
of  a  practical  substitution  of  God  for  the  soul  in  the  case  of 
the  perfectly  sanctified.  The  soul  within  the  soul  is  Deity. 
When  all  is  desolate,  silent,  the  divine  Majesty  arises,  thinks, 
feels,  and  acts,  within  tlie  transformed  humanity.  It  is  quite 
true  that,  as  sanctification  progresses.  Christian  virtue  becomes 
more  easy  as  the  new  habit  gains  strength.     In  many  respects 


0   I.]  God  in  Mail.  23 1 

it  is  true,  as  Madame  Guyon  says,  that  effort  would  be  requisite 
to  neglect  or  violate  cenain  duties  or  commands  rather  than  to 
perform  them.  But  this  facility  results  from  the  constitution 
of  our  nature.  We  carry  on  the  new  economy  within  with 
less  outcry,  less  labour,  less  confusion  and  resistance  than  we 
did  when  the  revolution  was  recent,  but  we  carry  it  on  still — 
working  with  divine  assistance.  God  works  in  man,  but  not 
instead  of  man.  It  is  one  thing  to  harmonize,  in  some  measure, 
the  human  will  with  the  divine,  another  to  substitute  divine 
volitions  for  the  human.  Every  man  has  within  him  Conscience 
— the  judge  often  bribed  or  clamoured  down ;  Will — the 
marshal ;  Imagination — the  poet ;  Understanding — the  student; 
Desire — the  merchant,  venturing  its  store  of  affection,  and 
gazing  out  on  the  future  in  search  of  some  home-bound  argosy 
of  happiness.  But  all  these  powers  are  found  untrue  to  their 
allegiance.  The  ermine — the  baton — the  song — the  books — 
the  merchandize,  are  at  the  service  of  a  usurper — Sin.  When 
the  Spirit  renews  the  mind,  there  is  no  massacre — no  slaugh- 
terous sword  filling  with  death  the  streets  of  the  soul's  city, 
and  making  man  the  ruin  of  his  former  self.  These  faculties 
are  restored  to  loyalty,  and  reinstated  under  God.  Then  Con- 
science gives  verdict,  for  the  most  part,  according  to  the  divine 
statute-book,  and  is  habitually  obeyed.  Then  the  lordly  Will 
assumes  again  a  lowly  yet  noble  vassalage.  Then  the  dream 
of  Imagination  is  a  dream  no  longer,  for  the  reality  of  heaven 
transcends  it.  Then  the  Understanding  burns  the  magic 
books  in  the  market-place,  and  breaks  the  wand  of  its  curious 
arts — but  studies  still,  for  eternity  as  well  as  time.  The  activity 
of  Desire  amasses  still,  according  to  its  nature, — for  sotne 
treasure  man  must  have.  But  the  treasure  is  on  earth  no 
longer.  It  is  the  advantage  of  such  a  religion  that  the  very 
same  laws  of  our  being  guide  our  spiritual  and  our  natural  life. 
The  same  self-controul  and  watchful  diligence  which  built  up 


2^2\  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

the  worldly  habits  towards  the  summits  of  success,  may  be 
applied  at  once  to  those  habits  which  ripen  us  for  heaven. 
The  old  experience  will  serve.  But  the  mystic  can  find  no 
common  point  between  himself  and  other  men.  He  is  cut  off 
from  them,  for  he  believes  he  has  another  constitution  of  being, 
inconceivable  by  them — not  merely  other  tastes  and  a  higher 
itim.  The  object  of  Christian  love  may  be  incomprehensible, 
but  the  affection  itself  is  not  so.  It  is  dangerous  to  represent 
it  as  a  mysterious  and  almost  unaccountable  sentiment,  which 
finds  no  parallel  in  our  experience  elsewhere.  Our  faith  in 
Christ,  as  well  as  our  love  to  Christ,  are  similar  to  our  faith 
and  love  as  exercised  towards  our  fellow-creatures.  Regenera- 
tion imparts  no  new  faculty,  it  gives  only  a  new  direction  to 
the  old. 

X. 

Quietism  opposed  to  the  mercenary  religion  of  the  common 
and  consistent  Romanism  around  it,  the  doctrine  of  disinterested 
love.  Revolting  from  the  coarse  machinery  of  a  corrupt  system, 
it  took  refuge  in  an  unnatural  refinement.  The  love  inculcated 
in  Scripture  is  equally  remote  from  the  impracticable  indiffer 
ence  of  Quietism  and  the  commercial  principle  of  Superstition. 
Long  ago,  at  Alexandria,  Philo  endeavoured  to  escape  from  an 
effete  and  carnal  Judaism  to  a  similar  elevation.  The  Persian 
Sufis  were  animated  with  the  same  ambition  in  reaction  against 
the  frigid  legalism  of  the  creed  of  Islam.  Extreme  was  opposed 
to  extreme,  in  like  manner,  when  Quietism,  disgusted  with  the 
unblushing  inconsistencies  of  nominal  Christianity,  proclaimed 
its  doctrine  of  perfection— oi  complete  sanctification  by  faith. 
This  is  not  a  principle  peculiar  to  mysticism.  It  is  of  little 
practical  importance.  It  is  difficult  to  see  how  it  can  be  applied 
to  individual  experience.  The  man  who  has  reached  such  a 
state  of  purity  must  be  the  last  to  know  it.  If  we  do  not,  by 
some  strange  confusion  of  thought,  identify  ourselves  with  God, 


c.  I.]  The  Prayer  of  Silence.  233 


the  nearer  we  approach  Him  the  more  profoundly  must  we  be 
conscious  of  our  distance.  As,  in  a  still  water,  we  may  see 
reflected  the  bird  that  sings  in  an  overhanting  tree,  and  the 
bird  that  soars  towards  the  zenith — the  imai;e  deepest  as  the 
ascent  is  highest — so  it  is  with  our  approximation  to  the 
Infinite  Holiness.  Madame  Guyon  admits  tl  at  she  found  it 
necessary  jealously  to  guard  humility,  to  watch  and  pray — that 
her  state  was  only  of  '  comparative  immutability.'  It  appears 
to  us  that  perfection  is  prescribed  as  a  goal  ever  to  be 
approached,  but  ever  practically  inaccessible.  Whatever  degree 
of  sanctification  any  one  may  have  attained,  it  must  always 
be  possible  to  conceive  of  a  state  yet  more  advanced, — it 
must  always  be  a  duty  diligently  to  labour  towards  it. 

Quietist  as  she  was,  few  lives  have  been  more  busy  than  that 
of  Madame  Guyon  with  the  activities  of  an  indefatigable 
benevolence.  It  was  only  self-originated  action  which  she 
strove  to  annihilate.  In  her  case,  especially.  Quietism  con- 
tained a  reformatory  principle.  Genuflexions  and  crossings 
were  of  little  value  in  comparison  with  inward  abasement  and 
crucifixion.  The  prayers  repeated  by  rote  in  the  oratory, 
were  immeasurably  inferior  to  that  Prayer  of  Silence  she  so 
strongly  commends — that  prayer  which,  unlimited  to  times  and 
seasons,  unhindered  by  words,  is  a  state  rather  than  an  act,  a 
sentiment  ratlier  than  a  request, — a  continuous  sense  of  sub- 
mission, which  breathes,  moment  by  moment,  from  the  serene 
depth  of  the  soul,  '  Thy  will  be  done.''' 

^'i  Tliis  Prayer  of  Silence  became  liers  willingly  sacrifice  or  offer  Thee?    Oil, 

at  an  early  period  in  her  religions  cnrcer,  spare   nie   not.'     I   could  scarce  hear 

not  as  Ihc  result  of  direct  effort  in  pur-  speak  of  God,  or  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 

suance  of  a  theory,  but  simply  as  the  without  being  almost  ravished  out  of 

consequence  of  overpowering  emotion.  myself.     What  surprised  me  the  most, 

bhe  says,    '  I  had  a  secret  desire  given  was  the  great  difficulty  I  had  to  say  tiie 

me  from  that  time  to  be  wholly  devoted  vocal  prayers  I  had  been  used  to  say. 

to  the  disposal  of  my  God,  let  it  be  As  soon  as  I  opened  my  lips  to  pro- 

what  it  would.     I  said,  '  What  couldst  nounce  them,  tiie  love  of  (jod  seized 

Thou  demand  of  rne,  that  I  would  not  me  so  strongly  that  I  w;is  swallowed  up 


-34  Quietism.  [u.  x. 

As  contrasted  with  the  mysticism  of  St.  Theresa,  that  of 
Madame  Guyon  appears  to  great  advantage.  She  guards  her 
readers  against  attempting  to  form  any  image  of  God.  She 
aspires  to  an  intellectual  elevation— a  spiritual  intuition,  above 
the  sensuous  region  of  theurgy,  of  visions,  and  of  dreams. 
She  saw  no  Jesuits  in  heaven  bearing  white  banners  among  the 
heavenly  throng  of  the  redeemed.  She  beheld  no  Devil,  '  like 
a  little  negro,'  sitting  on  her  breviary.  She  did  not  see  the 
Saviour  in  an  ecstasy,  drawing  the  nail  out  of  His  hand.  She 
felt  no  large  white  dove  fluttering  above  her  head.  But  she 
did  not  spend  her  days  in  founding  convents — a  slave  to  the 
interests  of  the  clergy.  So  they  made  a  saint  of  Theresa,  and 
Ji  confessor  of  Madame  Guyon. 

XI. 

In  the  summer  of  1681,  Madame  Guyon,  now  thirty-four 
years  of  age,  quitted  Paris  for  Gex,  a  town  lying  at  the  foot  of 
the  Jura,  about  twelve  miles  from  Geneva.  It  was  arranged 
that  she  should  take  some  part  in  the  foundation  and  manage- 
ment of  a  new  religious  and  charitable  institution  there,  ''a 
period  of  five  years  was  destined  to  elapse  before  her  return  to 
the  capital.  During  this  interval,  she  resided  successively  at 
Gex,  Thonon,  Turin,  and  Grenoble.  Wherever  she  went,  she 
was  indefatigable  in  works  of  charity,  and  also  in  the  diffusion 
of    her  peculiar  doctrines   concerning  self-abandonment  and 

in  a  profound  silence,  and  a  peace  not  Lord  Jesus  Christ  Himself  ■  a  nraver 

to  be  expressed.     I  made  fresh  essays,  of  the"^  Word,  which  iT  made  bv X 

but  st.ll  ni  vain      I  began,  but  could  Spirit,   which    accordi ,..  to  St    P-itl 

not  go  on.     And  as  I  had  never  before  '  asketh  for  us  that  which  i    ^ood   pe  1 

heard  of  such  a  state,  I  knew  not  what  feet,  and  conformable  to  t1°e  wiU  of 

to  do      My  mabihty  therem  still  in-  ^oA.'-Anioluo^raphy,  part  I    c   x ii 
creased,  because  my  love  to  God  was  Here  we  find  genine  devout  fer- 

stil    growmg  more  strong,  more  vio-  vour,  emancipating  itself,   very  natu- 

lent,  and  more  overpowenng.     There  rally  in  private,  from  allot  ed  forms  of 

vv-as  made  m  me,   without  the  sound  prayer;    but    no    mystic    rn,    tlT  we 

of  words,  a   continual   prayer,  which  come  to  the  last  sentence-eVen  th^ 

seemed  to  me  to  be  the  prayer  of  our  admitting  a  favourable  explanation 


c.  I.]  Labours  of  Love.  5^5 

disintcrcsrcd  love.  Strong  in  the  persuasion  of  her  mission, 
she  could  not  rest  without  endeavouring  to  influence  the  minds 
around  her.  The  singular  charm  of  her  conversation  won  a 
speedy  ascendency  over  nearly  all  with  whom  she  came  in  con- 
tact. It  is  easy  to  see  how  a  remarkable  natural  gift  in  this 
direction  contributed  both  to  the  attempt  and  the  success. 
But  the  Quietest  had  buried  nature,  and  to  nature  she  would 
owe  nothing, — -these  conversational  powers  could  be,  in  her 
eyes,  only  a  special  gift  of  utterance  from  above.  This  mistake 
reminds  us  of  the  story  of  certain  monks  upon  whose  cloister 
garden  the  snow  never  lay,  though  all  the  country  round  was 
buried  in  the  rigour  of  a  northern  winter.  The  marvellous 
exemption,  long  attributed  by  superstition  to  miracle,  was  dis- 
covered to  arise  simply  from  certain  thermal  springs  which  had 
their  source  within  the  sacred  inclosure.  It  is  thus  that  the 
warmth  and  vivacity  of  natural  temperament  has  been  com- 
monly regarded  by  the  mystic,  as  nothing  less  than  a  fiery 
impartation  from  the  altar  of  the  celestial  temple. 

At  Thonon  her  apartment  was  visited  by  a  succession  of  ap- 
plicants from  every  class,  who  laid  bare  their  hearts  before  her, 
and  sought  from  her  lips  spiritual  guidance  or  consolation.  She 
met  them  separately  and  in  groups,  for  conference  and  for 
prayer.  At  Grenoble,  she  says  she  was  for  some  time  engaged 
from  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  eight  at  evening  in  speaking 
of  God  to  all  sorts  of  persons, — '  friars,  priests,  men  of  the 
world,  maids,  wives,  widows,  all  came,  one  after  another,  'o 
hear  what  I  had  to  say.'^^     Her  efforts  among  the  members  of 

'^^ Autobio!;i-aphy,\>x\.\i  ii.  c.  xvii.  'God  to  Tliysclf  only.  Tlicy  were  instantly 
supplied  me,' she  adds,  '  with  what  was  furnished  with  a  wonderful  facility  of 
pertinent  and  satisfactory  to  them  all,  prayer,  (jod  conferred  on  them  His 
after  a  wonderful  manner,  without  any  grace  plentifully,  and  wrought  mar- 
share  of  niystudy  or  meditation  therein,  vellous  changes  in  them,  'llie  most 
Nothing  was  hid  from  me  of  their  in-  advanced  of  these  souls  found,  when 
terior  state,  and  of  what  passed  within  with  me,  in  silence,  a  grace  communi- 
them.  Here,  O  my  God  !  thou  madest  cated  to  them,  which  they  could  neither 
an  infinite  number  of  conquests,  known  comprehend  nor  cease  to  admire.  The 


236 


Quietism. 


[is.  X. 


the  House  of  the  Novitiates  in  t-hac  city,  were  eminently  suc- 
cessful, and  she  appears  to  have  been  of  real  service  to  many 
who  had  sought  peace  in  vain,  by  the  austerities  and  the  routine 
of  monastic  seclusion.  Meanwhile,  she  was  active,  both  at 
Thonon  and  Grenoble,  in  the  establishment  of  hospitals  Slie 
carried  on  a  large  and  continually  increasing  correspondence 
In  the  former  place  she  wrote  her  Torrents,  in  the  latter  she 
published  her  Short  Method  of  Prayer,  and  commenced  her 
Commcntai'ies  on  the  Bible^^ 
But   alas !  all   this    earnest,    tireless   toil   is   unauthorized. 


otliers  found  an  unction  in  my  words, 
and  that  tliey  operated  in  them  what  I 
said  to  them.  ']"hey  said  they  had 
never  experienced  anything  Hl<e  it. 
Friars  of  different  orders,  and  priests 
of  merit,  came  to  see  me,  to  whom  our 
Lord  granted  very  great  favours,  as 
indeed  he  did  to  all  without  exception, 
who  came  in  sincerity.  One  thing  was 
surpnsmg,  and  that  was,  that  I  had 
not  a  word  to  say  to  such  as  came 
only  to  watch  my  words  and  to  criti- 
cise them.  Even  when  I  thought  to 
try  to  speak  to  them,  I  felt  that  I  could 
not,  and  that  God  would  not  have  me 

^o't I  felt  that  what  I  spoke 

flowed  from  the  fountain,  and  that  I 
was  only  the  instrument  of  Him  who 
made  me  speak.' — P.  S6. 

'9  The  little  book  to  which  she  gave 
the  name  of  The  Torrents,  was  written, 
she  tells  us,  at  the  suggestion  of  La 
Combe.  When  she  too'k  up  her  pen 
she  knew  not  what  she  was  to  say,  but 
soon  came  thoughts  and  words  aisun- 
dantly— as,  indeed,  they  were  sure  to 
do.  .She  compares  the  different  kinds 
of  spiritual  progress  to  the  mountain 
streams  she  had  seen  hunying  down 
the  sides  of  the  Alps.  She  describes 
the  varieties  in  the  gravitation  of  devout 
souls  toward  God— the  ocean  which 
they  seek.  Some  proceed  slowly,  by 
means  of  meditations,  austerities,  and 
works  of  charity,— dependent  mostly 
on  outward  appliances, -deficient  in 


spontaneity  and  ardour,— little  exer- 
cised by  inward  experience.  Another 
class  flow  in  a  fuller  stream,— grow 
into  laden  rivers— haste  with  more 
strength  and  speed  ;  but  these  are  apt 
to  dwell,  with  too  much  complacence 
on  those  rich  gifts  for  which  they  are 
conspicuous.  A  third  order  (and  to 
these  she  herself  belonged)  dash  out 
from  the  poverty  of  the  rocks,  im- 
petuous, leaping  over  every  obstacle, 
unburdened  by  wealthy  freightage  in- 
glorious in  the  eyes  of  men,  but  sTm'ple 
naked,  self-emptied,  with  resistless 
eagerness  foaming  up  out  of  abysmal 
chasms  that  seemed  to  swallow  them 
and  finding,  soonest  of  all,  that  Sea. 
divine,  wherein  al!  rivers  rest. 

Her  commentaries  on  Scripture  were 
written  with  extraordinary  rapidity. 
Tthe  fact  that  she  consulted  no  book 
except  the  Bible  in  their  composition 
must  doubtless  have  contributed  to 
their  speed:  certainly  not,  as  she  fan- 
cied, to  their  excellence.  No  writers 
are  so  diffuse  as  thi  mystics,  because 
no  others  have  written  so  fast,  imagin- 
ing headlong  haste  an  attribute  of  in- 
spiration. The  transcriber  could  not 
copy  in  five  days  what  she  had  written 
in  one  night.  We  may  conjecture  that 
the  man  must  have  been  paid  by  the 
day.  The  commentary  on  the  Can- 
ticles was  written  i,>  a  day  and  a  ha'f 
and  several  visits"  received  beside.-l 
Autobiography,  part  II.  c.  xxi. 


c.  i.J  Usefulness  and  Persecution.  237 

Eigotry  takes  the  alarm,  and  cries  the  Church  is  in  danger. 
Priests  wlio  were  asleep — priests  who  were  place-hunting — • 
priests  who  were  pleasure-hunting,  awoke  from  their  doze,  or 
drew  breath  in  their  chase,  to  observe  this  woman  whose  life 
rebuked  them — to  observe  and  to  assail  her ;  for  rebuke,  in 
their  terminology,  was  scandal.  Persecution  hemmed  her  in 
on  every  side  ;  no  annoyance  was  too  petty,  no  calumny  too 
gross,  for  priestly  jealousy.  The  inmates  of  the  religious  com- 
munity she  had  enriched  were  taught  to  insult  her — tricks  were 
devised  to  frighten  her  by  horrible  appearances  and  unearthly 
noises — her  windows  were  broken — her  letters  were  intercepted. 
Thus,  before  a  year  had  elapsed,  she  was  driven  from  Gex. 
Some  called  her  a  sorceress  \  others,  more  malignant  yet,  stig- 
matized her  as  half  a  Protestant.  She  had  indeed  recommended 
the  reading  of  the  Scriptures  to  all,  and  spoken  slightingly  of 
mere  bowing  and  bead-counting.  Monstrous  contumacy — said, 
with  one  voice,  spiritual  slaves  and  spiritual  slave-owners — that 
a  woman  desired  by  her  bishop  to  do  one  thing,  should  dis- 
cover an  inward  call  to  do  another.  At  Thonon  the  priests 
burnt  in  the  public  square  all  the  books  they  could  find  treating 
of  the  inner  life,  and  went  home  elated  with  their  performance. 
One  thought  may  have  embittered  their  triumph — had  it  only 
been  living  flesh  instead  of  mere  paper  !  She  inhabited  a  poor 
cottage  that  stood  by  itself  in  the  fields,  at  some  distance  from 
I'honon.  Attached  to  it  was  a  little  garden,  in  the  manage- 
ment of  which  she  took  pleasure.  One  night  a  rabble  from  the 
town  were  incited  to  terrify  her  with  their  drunken  riot, — they 
trampled  down  and  laid  waste  the  garden,  hurled  stones  in  at 
the  windows,  and  shouted  their  threats,  insults,  and  curses, 
round  the  house  the  whole  night.  Then  came  an  episcopal 
order  to  quit  the  diocese.  When  compelled  subsequently,  by 
the  opposition  she  encouiitered,  to  withdraw  secretly  from 
Grenoble,  she  was  advised  to  take  refuge  at  Marseilles.     She 


233  Oh  let  ism.  [u.  x. 

arrived  in  that  city  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  that  very 
afternoon  all  was  in  uproar  against  her,  so  vigilant  and  implac- 
able were  her  enemies. 


Note  t  j  page  214. 

Aittohiography,  chapp.  viii.  and  x.  In  describing  Iicr  state  of  mind  at  this 
time,  she  says, — 'Tliis  immersion  in  God  immcrged  all  things.  I  could  no 
more  see  the  saints,  nor  even  the  blessed  Virgin,  out  of  God  ;  but  I  beheld  them 
all  in  Him.  And  though  I  tenderly  loved  certain  saints,  as  St.  Peter,  St.  Paul, 
St.  Mary  Magdalen,  St.  Theresa,  with  all  those  who  were  spiritual,  yet  I  could 
not  form  to  myself  images  of  them,  nor  invoke  any  of  them  out  of  God."  Hera 
a  genuine  religious  fervour,  described  in  the  language  of  mystical  theology,  has 
overcome  superstition,  and  placed  her,  uncons'iiously,  in  a  position  similar  to 
that  of  Molinos  with  regard  to  these  professedly  subordinate  objects  of  Romanist 
worship.  It  may  be  observed,  in  passing,  that  while  Rome  pretends  to  subor- 
dinate saint-worship,  she  denounces  those  of  her  children  who  really  do  so,  as 
hereticiil,  i.e.,  reformatory,  in  their  tendency. 

Madame  Guyon  was  enabled  at  this  period  to  enjoy  a  habitual  inward  prayer, 
— '  a  prayer  of  rejoicing  and  possession,  wherein  the  taste  of  God  was  so  great, 
so  pure,  unblended,  and  uninterrupted,  that  it  drew  and  absorbed  the  powers  of 
the  soul  into  a  profound  recollection,  without  aet  or  discourse.  For  I  had  now 
no  sight  but  of  Jesus  Christ  alone.  All  else  was  excluded,  in  order  to  love  with 
the  greater  extent,  without  any  selfish  motives  or  reasons  for  loving.'  With 
much  good  sense,  she  declares  this  continual  and  immediate  sense  of  the  Divine 
presence  far  safer  and  higher  than  the  sensible  relish  of  ecstasies  and  ravish- 
ments,— than  distinct  interior  words  or  revelations  of  things  to  come, — so  often 
imaginary,  so  apt  to  divert  our  desires  from  the  Giver  to  the  gifts  ; — this  is  the 
revelation  of  Jesus  Christ,  which  makes  us  new  creatures,  the  manifestation  of  the 
Word  within  us,  who  cannot  deceive, — the  life  of  true  and  naked  faith,  which 
darkens  all  self-pleasing  lights,  and  reveals  the  minutest  faults,  that  pure  love 
may  reign  in  the  centre  of  the  soul.  Thus,  while  inheriting  the  phraseology  of 
the  mystics  (and  we  discern  in  these  accounts  of  her  early  experience  the 
influence  of  her  later  readings  in  mystical  theology),  she  is  less  sensuous  than 
Theresa,  less  artificial  than  John.  Like  the  latter,  she  assigns  to  love  the  office 
of  annihilating  the  will,  to  faith  that  of  absorbing  the  understanding,  'so  as  to 
make  it  decline  all  reasonings,  all  particular  brightnesses  and  illustrations.' 
The  Annihilation  of  the  Will,  or  the  Union  in  the  Will  of  God,  consists,  with 
her,  simply  in  a  state  of  complete  docility,  the  soul  yielding  itself  up  to 
be  emptied  of  all  which  is  its  own,  till  it  finds  itself  by  little  and  little  detached 
from  every  self-originated  motion,  and  placed  'in  a  holy  indifference  for  wilhng ; 
— wishing  nothing  but  what  God  does  and  wills. ' — P.  70. 

Note  to  page  218. 

She  describes  herself,  when  at  Thonon,  2S  causing  sundry  devils  to  withdraw 
with  a  word.  But  the  said  devils,  like  some  other  sights  and  sounds  which 
terrified  her  there,  were  probably  the  contrivance  of  the  monks  who  persecuted 
her,  with  whom  expertness  in  such  tricks  was  doubtless  reckoned  among  the 
accomplishments  of  sanctity.  When  at  the  same  place  (she  was  then  a  little  past 
thirty),  Madame  Guyon  believed  that  a  certain  virtue  was  vouchsafed  her— a  gift 


c.  i]  Spiritual  Power.  239 

of  spiritual  and  sometimes  of  bodily  healing,  dependent,  however,  for  its  suc- 
cessful operation,  on  the  degree  of  susceptibility  in  the  recipients. — 
Autobiography,  part  ii.  c.  xii. 

There  also  she  underwent  some  of  her  most  painful  and  mysterious  experiences 
with  regard  to  Father  La  Combe.  She  says, — 'Our  Lord  gave  me,  with  the 
weaknesses  of  a  child,  such  a  power  over  souls,  that  with  a  word  I  put  them  in 
pain  or  in  peace,  as  was  necessary  for  their  good.  I  saw  that  God  made  Him- 
self to  be  obeyed,  in  and  through  me,   like  an  absolute  Sovereign.     I  neither 

resisted  Him  nor  took  part  in  anything Ou,'  Lord  had  given  us  both 

(herself  and  La  Combe)  to  understand  that  He  would  unite  us  by  faith  and  by 
the  cross.     Ours,  then,  has  been  a  union  of  the  cross  in  every  respect,  as  well  as 

by  what  I  have  made  him  suffer,  as  by  what   I  have  suffered  for  him 

The  sufferings  which  I  have  had  on  his  account  were  such  as  to  reduce  me  some- 
times to  extremity,  which  continued  for  several  years.  For  tliough  I  have  been 
much  more  of  my  time  far  from  him  than  near  him,  that  did  not  relieve  my 
suffering,  which  continued  till  he  was  perfectly  emptied  of  himself,  and  to  the 

very  point  of  submission  wliich  God  required  of  him He  hath  occasioned 

me  cruel  pains  when  I  was  near  a  hundred  leagues  from  him.  I  felt  his  dispo- 
sition. If  he  was  faithful  in  letting  Self  be  destroyed,  I  was  in  a  state  of  peace 
and  enlargement.  If  he  was  unfaithful  in  reflection  or  hesitation,  I  suffered  till 
that  was  passed  over.  He  had  no  need  to  write  me  an  account  of  his  condition, 
for  I  knew  it ;  but  when  he  did  write,  it  proved  to  be  such  as  I  had  felt  it.' — 
//'/,/.  p.  51. 

She  says  that  frequently,  when  Father  La  Combe  came  to  confess  her,  she 
could  not  speak  a  word  to  him  ;  slie  felt  take  place  within  her  the  same  silence 
toward  him,  which  she  had  experienced  in  regard  to  God.  I  understood,  she 
adds,  that  God  wished  to  teach  me  that  the  language  of  angels  might  be  learnt 
by  men  on  earth, — that  is,  converse  without  words.  She  was  gradually  reduced 
to  this  wordless  communication  alone,  in  her  interviews  with  La  Combe  ;  and 
they  imagined  that  they  understood  each  other,  'in  a  manner  ineffable  and 
divine.'  She  regarded  the  use  of  speech,  or  of  the  pen,  as  a  kind  of  accommo- 
dation on  her  part  to  the  weakness  of  souls  not  sufficiently  advanced  for  these 
internal  communications. 

Here  Madame  Guyon  anticipates  the  Quakers.  Compare  Barclay's  Apology, 
Prop.  xi.  §§  6,  7. 

Shortly  after  her  arrival  in  Paris,  she  describes  herself  as  favoured,  from  the 
plenitude  which  filled  her  soul,  with  '  a  discharge  on  her  best-disposed  children 
to  their  mutual  joy  and  comfort,  and  not  only  when  present,  but  sometimes 
when  absent.'  '  I  even  felt  it,'  she  adds,  'to  flow  from  me  into  their  souls. 
When  they  wrote  to  me,  they  informed  me  that  at  such  times  they  had  received 
abundant  infusions  of  divine  grace.' — Ibid,  part  in.  c.  i. 

NOTK  TO   PAGE  223. 

Aulobio::raphy,  part  I.  c.  xiii.  Here  Madame  Guyon  has  found  confessors  blind 
guides,  and  confessions  profitless  ;  and  furthermore,  she  is  encouraged  and  in- 
structed in  the  inward  life  by  a  despised  layman.  There  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that  the  experience  of  Madame  Guyon,  and  the  doctrines  of  the  beggar,  were 
shared  to  some  extent  by  many  more.  Madame  Guyon  speaks  as  Theresa  does 
of  the  internal  pains  of  the  soul  as  equivalent  to  those  of  purgatory,  (c.  xi.)  The 
teaching  of  the  quondam  mendicant  concerning  an  internal  and  present  instead 
of  a  future  purgatory,  was  not  in  itself  contrary  to  the  declarations  of  orthodox 
mysticism.  But  many  were  beginning  to  seek  in  this  perfectionist  doctrine 
a  refuge  from  the  exactions  of  the  priesthood.     With  creatures  of  th<;  clergy  like 


240  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

Theresa,  or  with  monks  like  John  of  the  Cross,  such  a  tenet  would  be  retained 
within  the  limits  required  by  the  ecclesiastical  interest.  It  might  stimulate 
religious  zeal — it  would  never  intercept  religious  obedience.  But  it  was  not 
always  so  among  tlie  people — it  was  not  so  with  many  of  the  followers  of  ^'Iolinos. 
The  jealous  vigilance  of  priestcraft  saw  that  it  had  everything  to  fear  from  a 
current  belief  among  the  laity,  tliat  a  state  of  spiritual  perfection,  rendering 
purgatory  needless,  was  of  possible  attainment — might  be  reached  by  secret 
self-sacrifice,  in  the  use  of  very  simple  means.  If  sucli  a  notion  prevailed,  the 
lucrative  traffic  of  indulgences  might  totter  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  No 
devotee  would  impoverish  himself  to  buy  exemption  hereafter  from  a  purifying 
process  which  he  believed  himself  now  experiencing,  in  the  hourly  sorrows  he 
patiently  endured.  It  was  at  least  possible — it  had  been  known  to  happen,  that 
the  soul  which  struggled  to  escape  itself — to  rise  beyond  the  gifts  of  God, 
to  God — to  ascend,  beyond  words  and  means,  to  repose  in  Him, — which 
desired  only  the  Divine  will,  feared  only  the  Divine  displeasure,  -which  sought 
to  ignore  so  utterly  its  own  capacity  and  power,  might  come  to  attach  paramount 
importance  no  longer  to  the  powers  of  the  priesthood  and  the  ritual  of  the 
Church.  Those  aspirations  which  had  been  the  boast  of  Rome  in  the  few, 
became  her  terror  in  the  many.  Tlie  Quietest  might  believe  himself  sincere  in 
orthodoxy,  might  choose  him  a  director,  and  might  reverence  the  sacraments. 
But  such  abasement  and  such  ambition — distress  so  deep,  and  aims  so  lofty — 
would  often  prove  alike  beyond  the  reach  of  the  ordinary  confessional.  The 
oily  syllables  of  absolution  would  drop  in  vain  upon  the  troubled  waves  of  a 
nature  thus  stirred  to  its  inmost  depths.  And  if  it  could  receive  peace  only  from 
the  very  hand  of  God,  priestly  mediation  must  begin  with  shame  to  take  a  lower 
place.  The  value  of  relics  and  of  masses,  of  penances  and  paternosters,  would 
everywhere  fall.  An  absolute  indifference  to  self-interest  would  induce  indiffer- 
ence also  to  those  priestly  baits  by  which  that  self-interest  was  allured.  Sucli 
were  the  presentiments  which  urged  the  Jesuits  of  Rome  to  hunt  down  Molinos, 
with  all  the  implacability  of  fear.    The  craft  was  in  danger.     Hiiic  illcB  lachrymce. 

Note  to  page  224. 

See  the  Life  and  Religious  Opinions  and  Experience  of  Madame  de  la  Mothe 
Guyon,  &c.,  by  Thomas  C.  Upham,  (New  York,  1851)  ;  vol.  i.  p.  153.  Mr. 
Upham,  in  this  and  in  some  other  parts  of  his  excellent  biography,  appears  to 
me  to  have  fallen  into  the  same  error  with  Madame  Guyon.  He  perceives  her 
mistake  in  regarding  the  absence  of  joy  as  evidence  of  the  absence  of  the  divine 
favour.  But  he  contrasts  the  state  in  which  we  are  conscious  of  alacrity  and  joy 
in  religion — as  one  in  which  we  still  live  comparatively  by  sight,  with  that  con- 
dition of  privation  in  which  all  such  enjoyment  is  withdrawn — a  state  wherein 
we  are  called  to  live,  not  by  sight,  but  by  pure  and  n^iksA  faith.  Now,  faith  and 
sight  are  not  thus  opposed  in  Scripture.  In  the  New  Testament,  faith  is  always 
practical  belief  in  wliat  God  has  revealed  ;  and  sight,  as  the  opposite  course  of 
life,  always  so  much  unbelief — undue  dependence  on  things  seen  and  temporal. 
It  is  quite  true  that  too  much  stress  should  not  be  laid  by  us  on  the  intensity  or 
the  displays  of  mere  emotion, — since  religion  is  a  principle  rather  tlian  a  senti- 
ment. But  not  a  few  have  been  nursed  in  dangerous  delusion  by  sup^Dosing  that 
when  they  feel  within  them  scarce  a  trace  of  any  of  those  desires  or  dispositions 
proper  to  every  Christian  heart — when  they  have  no  glimpse  of  what  they  incor- 
rectly term  '  sight' — then  is  tiie  time  to  exercise  what  they  suppose  to  be  faith, — 
that  is,  to  work  themselves  up  to  the  obstinate  persuasion  that  they  personally 
are  still  the  children  of  God. 

It  may  well  be  questioned,  moreover,  whether  we  have  any  scriptural  ground 


E.  I.]  Aloue.  241 

for  believing  that  it  is  usual  with  the  Almighty,  for  the  growth  of  our  sanctifica- 
tion,  to  withdraw  Himself. — the  only  source  of  it.  To  these  supposed  hidings 
of  His  face  Madame  Guyon,  and  every  Qiiietist,  would  patiently  submit,  as  to 
the  sovereign  and  inscrutable  caprice  of  the  divine  Bridegroom  of  the  soul. 
Rather  sliould  we  regard  such  obscurations  as  originating  with  ourselves  and  not 
with  Him,  and  at  once  make  the  lost  sense  of  His  gracious  nearness  the  object 
of  humble  and  earnest  search.     '  Restore  unto  me  tlie  joy  of  thy  salvation  !' 

Madame  Guyon  describes  her  'state  of  total  privation'  in  tlie  twenty-firs', 
chapter  ol  the  Autobiography,  port  I. 


VOi..  IL 


CHAPTER  11. 

O  Mcnsch  wiltu  geinipffet  uevdn, 

Und  sein  versetzt  in  d'himliscli  erdn  ! 
So  mustu  vor  dein  asten  wilt, 
Gantz  hawen  ab,  das  frtichte  milt 
I'iirkommen  iiach  Gotts  ebenbildt.' 

Hymn  of  the  Fouktekntii  Century. 

Part  II. — The  Qiiicfist  Controversy. 
I. 
TN  the  3'ear  1686,  Madame  Guyon  returned  to  Paris,  and 
entered  the  head-quarters  of  persecution.  Rumours 
reached  her,  doubtless,  from  beyond  the  Alps,  of  cruel  measures 
taken  against  opinions  similar  to  her  own,  which  had  spread 
rapidly  in  Italy.  But  she  knew  not  that  all  these  severities 
originated  with  Louis  XIV.  and  his  Jesuit  advisers, — that  her 
king,  while  revoking  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and  dispatching  his 
dragoons  to  extirpate  Protestantism  in  France,  was  sending 
orders  to  D'Etrees,  his  ambassador  at  Rome,  to  pursue  with 
the  utmost  rigour  Italian  Quietism — and  that  the  monarch, 
who  shone  and  smiled  at  Marly  and  Versailles,  was  crowding 
with  victims  the  dungeons  of  the  Roman  Inquisition. 

The  leader  of  Quietism  in  Italy  was  one  Michael  de  Molinos, 
a  Spaniard,  a  man  of  blameless  life,  of  eminent  and  compara- 
tively enlightened  piety.  His  book,  entitled  The  Spiritual 
Guide,  was  published  in  1675,  sanctioned  by  five  famous 
doctors,  four  of  them  Inquisitors,  and  one  a  Jesuit,  and  passed, 
within  six  years,  through  twenty  editions  in  ditlerent  languages. 

'  O   man,  wouldst  thou  be  grafted,      hew  quite  away,  that  kindly  fruits  may 
and  to  the  heavenly  soil  transplanted?      come  lorth  in  God's  image, 
then  must  thou  first  thy  branches  wild 


0.  2.]  Pcrsa  tition  of  Alolinos.  243 

His  real  doctrine  was  probably  identical  in  substance  with  tliat 
of  Madame  Guyon."  It  was  openly  favoured  by  many  nobles 
and  ecclesiastics  of  distinguished  rank  ;  by  D'Etrees  among  the 
rest.  Molinos  had  apartments  assigned  him  in  the  Vatican, 
and  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  Infallibility  itself.  But  the 
Inquisition  and  the  Jesuits,  supported  by  all  the  influence  ot 
France,  were  sure  of  their  game.  The  audacity  of  the  Inqui- 
sitors went  so  far  as  to  send  a  deputation  to  examine  the 
orthodoxy  of  the  man  called  Innocent  XL  ;  for  even  the  tiara 
was  not  to  shield  the  patron  of  Molinos  from  suspicions  of 
heresy.  The  courtier-cardinal  D'Etrees  found  new  light  in  the 
missives  of  his  master.  He  stood  committed  to  Quietism.  He 
had  not  only  embraced  the  opinions  of  Molinos,  but  had  trans- 
lated hito  Italian  the  book  of  Malaval,  a  French  Quietist,  far 
more  extreme  than  Molinos  himself.'  Yet  he  became,  at  a 
moment's  notice,  the  accuser  of  his  friend.  He  produced  the 
letter  of  Louis  rebuking  the  faithless  sloth  of  the  pontift"  who 
could  entertain  a  heretic  in  his  palace,  while  he,  the  eldest  son 
of  the  Church,  toiled  incessantly  to  root  out  heresy  from  the 
soil  of  France.  He  read  before  the  Inquisitorial  Tribunal 
extracts  from  the  papers  of  Molinos.  He  protested  that  he 
had  seemed  to  receive,  in  order  at  the  j^roper  juncture  more 
effectually  to  expose,  these  abominable  mysteries.  If  these 
professions  were  false,  D'Etrees  was  a  heretic  ;  if  true,  a  villain. 

-  As  far  as  his  doctrine  differs  from  trusive  and  not  unqualified  mysticism 

that  of  Madame  Guyon,  it  is  for  the  of  Molinos  was  stigmatised  by  tlie  new 

worse,   because   he   approaches  more  epithet  of  Quietism,  and  condemned  as 

nearly  the  extreine  language  of  some  deadly   error.     The   extravagant   and 

of  the  orthodox  mystics  in  his  com-  wonder-working  mysticism  of  Theresa 

munion.  was  extolled  as  the  angelic  life.     See 

^  'J  his  Dialogue  of  Malaval's,  which  the  Account  of  Molinos  and  the  Quiet- 

goes  much  beyond  the  mysticism  of  ists,  appended   to  the  Autobiof;raphy 

Molinos,   was  approved  by  the   Sor-  of  Madame  Guyon  :  translated,  I  be- 

bonne,  and  found  so  conformable  to  lieve,   from  a  French  work,  entitled, 

the  teachings  of  St.  Theresa,  that  the  Kccucil  de  Diverscs  Pit-ccs  concernant 

translation  of  it  was  dedicated  to  tlie  le  Quidtistne  ct  les  Quietistcs. 
bare-footed    Carmelites.     The   unob- 

R  ?. 


^44  Qtiietisin.  [n.  x. 

The  Inquisitors,  of  course,  deemed  his  testimony  too  valuable 
to  be  refused.  In  the  eyes  of  such  men,  the  enormous  crime 
which  he  pretended  was  natural,  familiar,  praiseworthy.  Depths 
of  baseness  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary  iniquity,  are  heights 
of  virtue  with  the  followers  of  Dominic  and  Loyola.  Guilt, 
which  even  a  bad  man  would  account  a  blot  upon  his  life, 
becomes,  in  the  annals  of  their  zeal,  a  star.  The  Spanish  In- 
(juisitor-General,  Valdes,  who  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  his 
repute  for  sanctity,  secured  the  objects  of  his  ambition,  averted 
the  dangers  which  threatened  him,  and  preserved  his  ill-gotten 
wealth  from  the  grasp  of  the  crown,  simply  by  his  activity  as  a 
persecutor,  made  a  practice  of  sending  spies  to  mix  (under 
pretence  of  being  converts  or  inquirers)  among  the  suspected 
Lutherans  of  Valladolid  and  Seville.  Desmarets  de  St.  Sorlin 
denounced,  and  caused  to  be  burnt,  a  poor  harmless  madman, 
named  Morin,  who  fancied  himself  the  Holy  Ghost.  Counselled 
by  the  Jesuit  confessor  of  Louis,  Father  Canard,  he  pretended 
to  become  his  disciple,  and  then  betrayed  him.  This  Desmarets, 
be  it  remembered,  had  written  a  book  called  Lcs  Dclices  de 
r Esprit,  happily  characterised  by  a  French  wit,  when  he  pro- 
posed for  delices  to  read  dc/ircs.  Those  immoral  consequences 
which  the  enemies  of  Madame  Guyon  professed  to  discern  in 
her  writings  are  drawn  openly  in  the  sensual  and  blasphemous 
pln-aseology  of  this  religious  extravaganza.  Tut  because 
Desmarets  was  a  useful  man  to  the  Jesuits — because  he  had 
drawn  away  some  of  the  iiuns  of  the  Port  Royal — because  he 
had  given  the  flames  a  victim — because  he  was  protected  by 
Canard, — the  same  Archbishop  of  Paris  who  imprisoned 
Madame  Guyon,  honoured  with  his  sanction  the  ravings  of  the 
licentious  visionary.''  So  little  had  any  sincere  dread  of 
spiritual  extravagance  to  do  with  the  hostility  concentrated  on 
*^^"ie  disciples  of  Quietism.  The  greater  portion  of  the  priest- 
*  Michelet,  Priests,  Women,  and  Families,  p.  74. 


2.]  Death  of  Moli/ios.  245 


hood  feared  only  lest  men  should  leani  to  become  religious  on 
their  own  account.  The  leaders  of  the  movement  against 
Madame  Guyon  were  animated  by  an  additional  motive.  They 
knew  they  should  delight  his  Most  Christian  Majesty  by 
affording  him  another  opportunity  of  manifesting  his  zeal  for 
orthodoxy ;  and  they  wished  to  strike  at  the  reputation  of 
Fene'lon  through  Madame  Guyon.  The  fate  of  Molinos  decided 
hers,  and  hers  that  of  the  Archbisliop  of  Cambray. 

The  only  crime  brought  home  to  the  followers  of  Molinos 
was  a  preference  for  the  religion  of  the  heart  to  that  of  the 
rosary ;  the  substitution  of  a  devout  retirement  for  the  observ- 
ance of  certain  superstitious  forms  and  seasons.  His  condem- 
nation was  determined.  After  an  imprisonment  of  two  years 
he  was  exhibited  in  the  Temple  of  Minerva,  his  hands  bound, 
and  a  lighted  taper  between  them.  A  plenary  indulgence  was 
granted  to  all  who  should  be  present ;  a  vast  concourse  listened 
to  the  sentence  ;  hired  voices  cried,  '  To  the  fire  !  to  the  fire  ! ' 
the  mob  was  stirred  to  a  frenzy  of  fanaticism.  His  last  gaze 
upon  the  world  beheld  a  sea  of  infuriate  faces,  the  pomp  of  his 
triumphant  adversaries, — then  to  the  gloom  and  solitude  of  the 
dungeon  in  which  he  was  to  languish  till  death  bestowed 
release.^ 

II. 

At  Paris,  Madame  Guyon  became  the  centre  of  a  small  but 
illustrious  circle,  who  listened  with  delight  to  her  exposition  of 
that  Quietism  to  which  the  tender  earnestness  of  her  language, 
and  her  manner  lent  so  indescribable  a  charm.  There  were  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Beauvilliers,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Chevreuse,  the  Duchess  of  Bethune,  and  the  Countess  of 
Guiche.  The  daughters  of  Colbert  and  of  Fouquet  forgot  the 
lOng  enmity  of  their  fathers  in  a  religious  friendship,  whose  tie 
was  yet  more  closely  drawn  by  their  common  admiration  for 
'  Sec  Note  oil  p.  276. 


246 


Quietism. 


[b. 


Madame  Guyon/  But  letters  filled  with  complaints  against  La 
Combe  and  Madame  Guyon  poured  in  upon  Harlay,  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris/  He  procured  the  arrest  of  La  Combe,  who 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  various  prisons.     A  Httle 


Upham,   vol.   ii.   pp.   3,   &c.     We 
find  among  these   persons  of  rank  a 
religion   of    some    vitality — no   court- 
fashion  merely.     It  was  to  the  Intro- 
duction a  la  Vie  Ddvote  (1608)  of  St. 
Francis  de  Sales  that   Romanism  was 
indebted  for  such  hold  as  it  really  had 
on   the  upper  classes.     None  of   the 
great  ecclesiastical  writers  of  France— 
not  even  that  darling  of  the  fifteenth 
century,    the   Imitatio   C/iristi,   could 
win  the  ears  of  people  of  the  world. 
In  the  Introduction,  however,  religion 
appeared  neither  ruthlessly  stern,  nor 
hopelessly  fantastical.     It  was  not,  on 
the     one    side,    scowling,    unkempt, 
sordid,    morose  ;    it   was  not,    on  the 
other,  impalpable,  supersensuous,  ut- 
terly  unintelligible,    as    well    as    un- 
desirable,  to  worldly  common  sense. 
Fashion  and  devotion  met  ;    piety  and 
politeness  embraced  each  other.     The 
Introduction  leaves  to  others  the  pains 
and    raptures   of    the    mystic.      It    is 
written    for    the    Marthas,    not     the 
Marys.     Its    readers,     personified    in 
Philothea,    are   not   supposed    to    be 
covetous   of  any  extraordinary  gifts. 
De  Sales  possessed  a  lively  fancy,  and 
the  tender  religious  sentiment  of  his 
book,    graced   and   lightened    by    its 
rainbow    illustrations,    was    a  bright- 
winged   Psyche,  welcome  e\-ery\vhcre. 
These  illustrations  are  drawn,  some- 
times   from    the    farms,    the    flower- 
valleys,    and   the   snow-peaks   of    his 
native  Savoy  ;  sometimes  from  fabu- 
lous natural  history,  from  classic  story, 
from  the  legends  of  the  Church,  or  the 
forms  and  usages  of  the  world,— often- 
est  of  all,  fiom  the  ways  of  infants  and 
children,  and  from  the  love  of  mothers. 
St.    Beuve    happily   characterises   the 
work,   as  'vry  livre  qui,  sur  la  table 
d'une  femme  comme  il  faut  ou  d'un 
gentilhomme  poll  de  ce  temps-la,  ne 
chassait  pa-«.  absolument  le  volume  de 


Montaigne,  et,  attendait,  sans  le  fuir, 
le  volume  d'Urf^.'  —  Causer ies  du 
Lnndi,  tom.  vii.  p.  216. 

'  This  Harlay  had  owed  his  arch 
bishopric  to  his  libertinism  in  the  days 
of  Madame  de  Montespan.  His  sun 
was  now  setting,  ingloriously  enough, 
under  the  decent  regime  of  the  Main- 
tenon,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  atone  for  the  scandals  of  his  life 
and  diocese  by  exemplary  rigour  in 
matters  of  doctrine.  Tiie  letters  sent, 
and  the  documents  shown  him,  were 
the  fabrication  of  La  Mothe  and  his 
creature  the  scrivener  Gautier.  They 
forged  a  letter  from  Marseilles,  pre- 
tending that  La  Combe  had  slept 
in  the  same  chamber  with  Madame 
Guyon— and  also  eaten  meat  in  Lent. 
La  Combe  was  further  accused  of 
having  embraced  and  taught  the 
heresy  of  Molinos. 

The    real    letters     N\hich    followed 
Madame  Guyon   from    the   scenes  of 
her  former  activity  breathe  no  suspi- 
cion of  her  character  or  motives.    '1  he 
Bishop  of  Geneva,  in  a  letter  quoted 
by  Feiielon,    declared    that    his    only 
complaint  against  her  was  the  indis- 
creet zeal  witli  which  she  everywhere 
propagated  truths  which  she  believed 
serviceable  to  the  Church.     With  that 
exception,  '  he  esteemed  her  infinitely 
and   entertained   for  her   the   highest 
imaginable  regard.'    This  was  in  1683. 
in  16S8  he  prohibited  her  hooks.     But 
even  in  1695,  the  same  bishop  repeats 
his  praise  of  her  piety  and  morals,  and 
declares    that    his    conscience    never 
would  have  suffered  him  to  speak  of 
her  in  other  than  respectful  language. 
—See    Memoirs  for    the   History^ o 
Madame     de     Maintenon     (London 
1757).    vol.    HI.   bk.   xi.   c.   2.     Auto- 
biography,   part  in.   chapp.   i.   ii.   iii. 
Fdnelons  Rtponse  a  la  delation  sur  I? 
QuuHisme,  chap.  i. 


0.  2  (  Fere  ui  MotJie.  247 

calumny  and  a  forged  letter  obtained  from  the  king  a  leitre  de 
cachet  confining  Madame  Guyon  to  an  apartment  in  the  Convent 
of  St.  Marie.  The  sisters  were  strongly  prejudiced  against  her^ 
but  her  gentle  patience  won  all  hearts,  and  her  fair  jailors  soon 
vied  with  each  other  in  praises  of  their  fascinating  prisoner. 
An  examination  elicited  nothing  decidedly  unfavourable.  Not 
a  stain  could  be  detected  in  her  character  ;  she  oftered  to  sub- 
mit all  her  papers  and  her  writings  to  investigation.  The  inter- 
cession of  Madame  Miramion  and  other  friends  with  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  procured  her  release,  after  a  captivity  of  eiglit 
months. 

The  most  dangerous  enemy  Madame  Guyon  had  as  yet  was 
her  own  half-brother,  Pere  La  Mothe.  He  had  calumniated 
her  in  secret  while  in  Switzerland  ;  he  was  still  more  active 
now  she  was  in  Paris.  He  wished  to  become  her  Director,  but 
La  Combe  was  in  the  way.  The  artifices  of  La  Mothe  procured 
his  arrest.  He  advised  Madame  Guyon,  with  hypocritical  pro- 
testations of  friendship,  to  flee  to  Montargis  from  the  scandalous 
reports  he  himself  had  circulated,  and  from  adversaries  he 
himself  had  raised  up.  Then  she  would  have  been  at  his 
mercy — he  would  have  pointed  to  her  flight  as  a  proof  of  guilt, 
and  her  own  property  and  the  guardianship  of  her  children 
might  have  been  secured  for  himself.  He  injured  her  as  a 
relation  only  could.  People  said  her  cause  must  be  a  bad  one, 
since  her  own  brother  was  constrained,  irom  regard  to  the  credit 
of  religion,  to  bear  witness  against  her.  A  woman  who  had 
committed  sacrilege  at  Lyons,  and  had  run  away  from  the 
Convent  of  Penitents  at  Dijon,  was  employed  by  him  to  forge 
letters  which  should  damage  the  character  of  Madame  Guyon  ; 
to  personate  one  of  her  maids,  and  to  go  from  confessor  to 
confessor  throughout  Paris,  asserting  that  after  living  sixteen  or 
seventeen  years  with  her  mistress,  she  had  quitted  her  at  lasi, 
in  disgust  at  her  abominable  life. 


^^^  Qiuctisvi.  u  ^. 


III. 


Released  from  the  Convent  of  St.  Marie,  Madame  Guyon 
was  conducted  by  her  court  friends  to  express  her  thanks  to 
Madame  de  Maintenon  at  St.  Cyr.     This  institution  had  been 
founded,  ten  years  previously,  for  the  education  of  the  dau-hten 
of  noble  but  impoverished  families.      The  idea  originated  with 
Madame  de  Maintenon  :  it  was  executed  with  royal  speed  and 
magnificence  by  Louis,  and  St.  Cyr  became  her  favourite  resort 
In  fifteen  months  two  thousand  six  hundred  workmen  raised 
the  structure,  on  a  marshy  soil,  about  half  a  league  from  Paris 
The  genius  of  Mansard  presided  over  the  architecture      The 
style  of  the  ordinances  was  revised  bv  Boileau  and   Racine 
There  three  hundred  young  ladies  of  rank,  dressed  in  gowns  of 
brown  crape,  with  white  quilted  caps,  tied  with  ribbons  whose 
colour  indicated  the  class  to  which  theybelgnged  in  the  school 
studied  geography  and  drawing,  heard  mass,  sang  in  tlie  choir' 
and  hstened  to  preachments  from  the  lips  of  Madame  Brinon— 
who  discoursed,  so  swore  some  of  the  courtiers,  as  eloquentlv 
as  Bourdaloue  himself.      Tired  out  with  the  formal  splendours 
of  Versailles,  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  playing  the  part  of  lady  abbess  at  St.  Cyr.      Often  .she 
would  be  there  by  six  in  the  morning,  would  herself  assist  at 
the  toilette  of  the  pupils,  would  take  a  class  throughout  the 
day,  would  give  the  novices  lessons  on  spiritual  experience  • 
nothing  in  its  routine  was  dull,  nothing  in  its  kitchen  was 
mean.     She  hated  Fontainbleau,  for  it  tore  her  from  her  family 
at  St.   Cyr.     For  the  private  theatricals  of  St.  Cyr,  Racine 
wrote  Esther,  at  the  request  of  Madame  de  Maintenon.  Happy 
was  the  courtier  who  could  obtain  permission  to  witness  one  of 
these  representations,  who  could  tell  with  triumph  to  envious 
groups  of  the  excluded,  what  an  admirable  Ahasuerus  Madame 
de  Caylus  made,  what  a   spirited  Mordecai  was  Mademoiselle 
de  Glapion,   how  the   graceful    Mademoiselle    de    Veillerre 


2.]  Madame  Gnyon  at  St.   Cyr.  249 


charmed  the  audience  in  the  prayer  of  Esther— in  short,  hmv 
far  the  Esther  surpassed  the  Phedra ;  and  the  actresses  excelled 
the  Raisins  and  the  Chammelcs  of  the  Parisian  boards.  Louis 
himself  drew  up  the  Hst  of  admissions,  as  though  it  were  for  a 
journey  to  Marly— he  was  the  first  to  enter— and  stood  at  the 
door,  with  the  catalogue  of  names  in  one  hand  and  his  canv. 
held'across  as  a  barrier  in  the  other,  till  all  the  privileged  had 
entered.'  But  the  fashion  of  asceticism  which  grew  with  every 
year  of  iMaintenon's  reign  threw  its  gloom  over  St.  Cyr.  The 
absolute  vows  were  introduced,  and  much  of  the  monotonous 
austerity  of  conventual  life.  Religious  excitement  was  the 
only  resource  left  to  the  inmates  if  they  would  not  die  of 
ennui.     This  relief  was  brought  them  by  Madame  Guyon. 

Madame  de  Maintenon  was  touched  with  pity  for  the  mis- 
fortunes of  Madame  Guyon,  with  admiration  for  such  patience, 
such  forgetfulness  of  self,— she  found  in  the  freshness  and 
fervour  of  her  religious  conversation,  a  charm  which  recalled 
the  warmer  feelings  of  youth  ;  which  was  welcome,  for  its 
elevation,  after  the  fatigue  and  anxiety  of  state,  for  its  sweet- 
ness, as  contrasted  with  the  barren  minutife  of  rigid  formalism. 
She  'invited  her  constantly  to  her  table— she  encouraged  her 
visits  to  St.  Cyr— she  met  with  her,  and  with  F^nelon,  at  the 
Hotels  de  Chevreuse  and  Beauvilliers,  where  a  religious  coterie 
assembled  three  times  a  week  to  discuss  the  mysteries  of 
inward  experience.  Thus,  during  three  or  four  years  of  favour 
with  Madame  de  Maintenon,  Madame  Guyon  became  in  effect 
the  spiritual  instructress  of  St.  Cyr,  and  found  herself  at  Paris 
surrounded  by  disciples  whose  numbers  daily  increased,  and 
whom  she  withdrew  from  the  licentious  gaieties  of  the  capital. 
At  St.  Cyr  the  young  ladies  studied  her  books,  and  listened  to 
her  as  an   oracle— the  thoughtless  grew  serious— the  religious 

«  Memoirs  for  the  History  of  Madame      doctrine  entered  St.  Cyr  while  the  ab- 
tJcMaiutciicn,  bk.  i.\.  Mad'ameGuyon's      solute  vows  were  yet  under  discussion. 


"50  Quietism.  Tu  ^_ 

strained  every  faculty  to  imitate  the  attainments  of  one  in  whom 
they  saw  the  ideal  of  devotion.  In  Paris,  mystical  terminology 
became  the  fashionable  language— it  was  caught  up  and  glibly 
uttered  by  wits  and  roues— it  melted  from  the  lips  of  beauties  who 
shot  languishing  glances  at  their  admirers,  while  they  aftected 
to  be  weary  of  the  world,  and  who  coquetted  while  they  talked 
significantly  of  holy  indifference  or  pure  love.  Libertines,  like 
Treville,  professed  reform,  and  wrote  about  mysticism,— 
atheists  turned  Christians,  like  CorbinelJi,  now  became  Quietists, 
and  might  be  seen  in  the  salon  of  Madame  le  Maigre,  where 
Corbinelli  shone,  the  brilliant  expositor  of  the  new  religious 
romanticism.' 

IV. 

During  this  period,  Madame  Guyon  became  acquainted  with 
Fenelon.  At  their  first  interview  she  was  all  admiration,  he 
all  distrust.  '  Her  mind,'  she  says,  '  had  been  taken  up  with 
him  with  much  force  and  sweetness  ;'  it  seemed  to  be  revealed 
to  her  that  he  should  become  one  of  her  spiritual  children. 
Fe'nelon,  on  his  part,  thought  she  had  neglected  her  duty  to 
her  family  for  an  imaginary  mission.  But  he  had  inquired  con- 
cerning her  life  at  Montargis,  and  heard  only  praise.  After  a 
few  conversations  his  doubts  vanished  :  he  had  proposed  objec- 
tions, requested  explanations,  pointed  out  unguarded  expres- 
sions in  her  books— she  was  modest,  submissive,  irresistible.'" 

'^Memoirs for  the  History  of  Madame  tural  communications,  which  came  and 

dtMaui  enon,  bk.  xi.  chap.  v.  vanished,   she   knew  not   how.      Yet 

)^  Autobiography   part  ill.  chap.  ix.  hke  John  of  the  Cross,  she  did   not 

Fenelon  declares  that  her  explanations  rest  on  these,  but  passed  on  into  the 

at   these  mterviews   were  such  as  to  obscure  path  of  pure  fnith      T^or  this 

satisfy  hmi  of   the  harmlessness  and  he   praised    her,    and    believed    that 

orthodoxy  of  her  intention.     She  ap-  though  these  experiences  were  illusorv 

peared  to  him  often   extravagant   or  a  spirit  so  lowly  and  so  obedient  had 

questionable  in   expression,  from   her  been  faithful  to  grace  throu^-hout  such 

Ignorance  ;  but  so  favoured  of  God,  that  involuntary  deception  notwithstandino- 

the  most  learned  divme  might  gather  —R^fousc  a  la  Relation  sur  le  Ouitt- 

spiritual  wisdom  from  her  lips.  She  told  ?V?/2f,  chap,  i,  10-13. 
bim  of  certain  instantaneous  superna- 


c.  2-1  Fcnelon  and  Madame  Gityon.  25  r 


There  was  a  power  in  her  language,  her  manner,  her  surviving 
beauty,  which  mysteriously  dissipated  prejudice ;  which  even 
Nicole,  Bossuet,  Boileau,  Gaillard,  could  not  withstand  when  they 
conversed  with  her, — which  was  only  overcome  when  they  had 
ceased  to  behold  her  face,  when  her  persuasive  accents  sounded 
BO  longer  in  their  ears.  She  recalled  to  the  thoughts  of  Fenelon 
his  youthful  studies  at  St.  Sulpice ; — there  he  had  perused  the 
mystical  divines  in  dusty  tomes,  clasped  and  brazen-cornered, 
— now  he  beheld  their  buried  doctrine  raised  to  life  in  the  busy 
present,  animating  the  untaught  eloquence  of  a  woman,  whom 
a  noble  enthusiasm  alone  had  endowed  with  all  the  prerogatives 
of  genius,  and  all  the  charms  of  beauty.  This  friendship,  which 
events  rendered  afterwards  so  disastrous  for  himself,  was  bene- 
ficial to  Madame  Guyon.  Fe'nelon  taught  her  to  moderate  some 
of  her  spiritual  excesses.  Her  extravagance  reached  its  culmi- 
nating point  at  Thonon.  At  Paris,  influenced  doubtless  by 
Fenelon,  as  well  as  by  more  frequent  intercourse  with  the 
world,  she  no  longer  enjoys  so  many  picturesque  dreams,  no 
more  heals  the  sick  and  casts  out  devils  with  a  word,  and  no 
longer — as  in  her  solitude  there — sufters  inward  anguish  conse- 
quent on  the  particular  religious  condition  of  Father  La  Combe 
when  he  is  three  hundred  miles  off."  It  is  curious  to  observe 
how  the  acquaintance  of  Fenelon  with  Madame  Guyon  began 
with  suspicion  and  ripened  into  friendship,  while  that  of  Bos- 
suet, commencing  with  approval,  and  even  admiration,  ended  in 
calumny  and  persecution.     Bossuet  declared  to  the  Due  de 

"  She  still  speaks,  however,  of  the  pressions,  than  the  kindly  yet  search- 

'  sense  vouchsafed  her  of  the  state  of  ing  inquiries  of  a  man  like   Fenelon, 

tlie  souls  given  to  her,  even  when  they  qualified  by  temperament  to  enter  into 

were  at  a  distance  ;  and  of  communi-  her  feelings,  and  a  master  in  mystical 

cation  in  God  with  those  to  whom  the  tiieology.     Mr.   Upham  seems  to  me 

Lord  united  her  by  the  tie  of  spiritual  greatly  to   overrate   the   influence  of 

maternity.  Autobiography,  part  iir.  ch.  Madame  Guyon  on  Fenelon.     To  her 

viii.     Nothing  was  more  likely  to  open  fancy,  her  imagination  might  at  times 

her  eyes  to  the  questionable  character  depict  him  as  a  spiritual  son  :  he  was, 

of  some  of  her  experiences,  and  to  the  in  fact,  a  friendly  judge, 
unguarded  nature  of  many  of  her  e.s- 


252  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

Chevreuse  that  while  examining  lier  writings,  for  the  first  time, 
he  was  astonished  by  a  Hght  and  unction  he  had  never  before 
seen,  and,  for  three  days,  was  made  to  reaUze  the  divine 
Presence  in  a  manner  altogether  new.  Bossuet  had  never, 
like  Fenelon,  studied  the  mystics.^^ 

V. 

The  two  most  influential  Directors  at  St.  Cyr  were  Godet 
des  Marais,  Bishop  of  Chartres,  and  Fenelon.  These  two  men 
form  a  striking  contrast.  Godet  was  disgusting  in  person  and 
in  manners — a  sour  ascetic — a  spiritual  martinet — devoted  to  all 
the  petty  austerities  of  the  most  formal  discipline.  Fe'nelon 
was  dignified  and  gentle,  graceful  as  a  courtier,  and  spotless  as 
a  saint — the  most  pure,  the  most  persuasive,  the  most  accom- 
plished of  religious  guides.  No  wonder  that  most  of  the  young 
inmates  of  St.  Cyr  adored  Fenelon,  and  could  not  endure  Godet. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  wavered  between  her  two  confessors  ;  if 
Fenelon  was  the  more  agreeable,  Godet  seemed  the  more  safe. 
Godet  was  miserably  jealous  of  his  rival.  He  was  not  sorry  to 
find  that  the  new  doctrines  had  produced  a  little  insubordination 
within  the  quiet  walls  of  St.  Cyr — that  Fendlon  would  be  com- 
promised by  the  indiscretion  of  some  among  his  youthful  ad- 
mirers. He  brought  a  lamentable  tale  to  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
Madame  du  Peron,  the  mistress  of  the  novices,  had  complained 
that  her  pupils  obeyed  her  no  longer.  They  neglected  regular 
duties  for  unseasonable  prayers.  They  had  illuminations  and 
ecstasies.  One  in  the  midst  of  sweeping  her  room  would 
stand,  leaning  on  her  broom,  lost  in  contemplation  :  another, 

'-  When  called  to  separate  the  true  Catharineof  Genoa,  St.  Theresa,  Jolin 

mysticism  from  the  false  in  tlie  writ-  of  the  Cross,  Alvarez,   De  Sales,  and 

ings  of  Madame  Guyon,  Bossuet  was  Madame  de  Chantal.     With  just  in- 

not   only   ignorant  of  Tauler,    Ruys-  dignation   floes   Fi^n^lon   expose    the 

broek,  Harpliius,  and  others  ;  he  had  artifice   by  which    Bossuet  afterwards 

not  even  read  Francis  de  Sales  or  John  attempted     to    turn     this    confidence 

of  the  Cross.     Fenelon,  at  his  request,  against  him. — Riponse  a  la  Relation 

sent  him  a  collection  of  passages  from  siir  le  Quidtisme,  chap.  ii.  18-27. 
Suso,   Harphius,    Ruysbroek,  Tauler, 


c.  2,J  l^ears  and  Slander.  253 

instead  cf  hearing  lessons,  became  inspired,  and  resigned  her- 
self to  the  operaiion  of  the  Spirit.     The  under-mistress  of  the 
classes  stole  away  the  enlightened  from  the  rest,  and  they  were 
found  in  remote  corners  of  the  house,  feasting  in  secret  on  the 
sweet  poison  of  Madame  Guyon's  doctrine.     The  precise  and 
methodical  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  horrified.  She  had  hopea 
to  realize  in  her  institute  the  ideal  of  her  Church,  a  perfect  uni- 
formity of  opinion,  an  unerring  mechanism  of  obedience.     We 
wished,  said  she,  to  promote  intelligence,  we  have  made  orators  ; 
devotion,  we  have  made  Quietists  ;  modesty,  we  have  made 
prudes  ;  elevation  of  sentiment,  and  we  have  pride.     She  com- 
missioned Godet  to  reclaim  the  wanderers,  to  demand  that  the 
books  of  Madame  Guyon  should  be  surrendered,  setting  her- 
self the  example  by  publicly  delivering  into  his  hand  her  own  copy 
of  the  Short  Method.     She  requested  Madame  Guyon  to  refrain 
from  visiting  St.  Cyr.     She  began  to  doubt  the  prudence  or  the 
orthodoxy  of  Fenelon.''     What  would  the  king  say,  if  he  heard 
of  it—he,  who  had  never  liked  Fenelon— who  hated  nothing  so 
much  as  heresy— who  had  but  the  other  day  extinguished  the 
Quietism  of  Molinos  ?     She  had  read  to  him  some  of  Madame 
Guyon's  exposition  of  the  Canticles ;  and  he  called  it  dreamy 
stuff.     Doctrines  really  dangerous  to  purity  were  insinuated  by 
some  designing  monks,  under  the  name  of  Quietism.    ^  The 
odium  fell  on  the  innocent  I\Iadame  Guyon  j  and  her  friends 
would  necessarily  share  it.     Malicious  voices  charged  her  with 
corrupting  the  principles  of  the  Parisian  ladies.  Madame  Guyon 
replied  with  justice,— 'When  they  were  patching,  and  painting, 
and  ruining  their  famiUes  by  gambling  and  l^y  dress,  not  a 
word  was  said  against  it ;  now  that  they  have  withdrawn  from 
such  vanities,  the  cry  is,  that  I  have  ruined  them.'     Rumour 
grew  more  loud  and  scandalous  every  day  :  the  most  incredible 

^  History  of  Madame  dc  Maintawu,  bk.  XI.  cliap.  vii. 


-54  Qiiietisnl.  [-,,  ^_ 

reports  were  most  credited.  The  schools,  too,  had  taken  up  the 
question  of  mysticism,  and  argued  it  Avith  heat.  Nicole  and 
Lami  had  dissolved  an  ancient  friendship  to  quarrel  about  it,— 
as  Fenelon  and  Bossuet  were  soon  to  do.  No  controversy 
threatened  to  involve  so  many  interests,  to  fan  so  many  passions 
to  kmdle  so  many  hatreds,  as  this  variance  about  disinterested- 
ness, about  indifference,  about  love. 

The  politic  Madame  de  Maintenon  watched  the  gathering 
storm,  and  became  all  caution.     At  all  costs,  she  must  free 
herself  from  the  faintest  suspicion  of  fellowship  with  heresy 
She  questioned,  on  the  opinions  of  Madame  Guyon    Bossuet 
and  Noailles,  Bourdaloue,  Joly,  Tiberge,  Brisacier,  and  Tronson  • 
and  the  replies  of  these  esteemed  divines,  uniformly  unfavou/ 
able,  decided  her.     It  would  be  necessary  to  disown   Madame 
Guyon  :  her  condemnation  would  become  inevitable.    Fenelon 
must  be  induced  to  disown  her  too,  or  his  career  was  at  a  close  • 
and  Madame  de  Maintenon  could  smile  on  him  no  longer  "    ' 
Madame   Guyon,    alarmed  by   the   growing    numbers  ' and 
vehemence  of  her  adversaries,  had  recourse  to  the  man  who 
afterwards    became   her   bitterest    enemy.     She  proposed    to 
Bossuet  that  he  should  examine  her  writings.      He  complied  • 
held  several  private  interviews  with  her,  and  expressed  himself 
on  the  whole,  more  favourably  than  could  have  been  expected' 
But  these  conferences,  which  did  not  altogether  satisfy  Bossuet' 
could  do  nothing  to  allay  the  excitement  of  the  public."  ' 

J\^''.t^  "f^^"^^'"'  d'  ^raintcuon.      We  find  him  striving  to  moderate  the 

5^-;.^;     v^n^n-oo  '  The!  ^"'"- "  ''      ^^'husiasm  of  Aladamc  de  ifMafson! 
^t«(V(W,nv.  n.p.29j.   Iheliighopinion      fort— to  reconr^le  hpr  tr,  fi,o  ,        ,' 

--the  liberal  man  or  the  bigot  ;  p.nd      dence  on  boih  sides  Rc!aUonde?iM 


c.  2.J  Conference  at  Issy.  555 


>f  VI. 

Madame  Guyon  now  requested  the  appointment  of  commis- 
sioners, who  should  investigate,  and  pronounce  finally  con- 
cerning her  life  and  doctrine."  Three  were  chosen — Bossuet ; 
Noailles,  Bishop  of  Chalons ;  and  Tronson,  Superior  of  St. 
Sulpice.  Noailles  was  a  sensible,  kind-hearted  man  ;  Tronson, 
a  worthy  creature,  in  poor  health,  with  little  opinion  of  his  own ; 
Bossuet,  the  accredited  champion  of  the  Gallican  Church, 
accustomed  to  move  in  an  atmosphere  of  flattery — the  august 
dictator  of  the  ecclesiastical  world — vvas  absolute  in  their  con- 
ferences. They  met,  from  time  to  time,  during  some  six  months, 
at  the  little  village  of  Issy,  the  country  residence  of  the  Superior 
of  St.  Sulpice.  When  Madame  Cuyon  appeared  before  them, 
Bossuet  alone  was  harsh  and  rude  ;  he  put  the  worst  construc- 
tion on  her  words  ;  he  interrupted  her ;  now  he  silenced  her 
replies,  now  he  burlesqued  them  ;  now  he  affected  to  be  unable 
to  comprehend  them  \  now  he  held  up  his  hands  in  contemp- 
tuous amazement  at  her  ignorance  ;  he  would  not  suffer  to  be 
read  the  justification  which  had  cost  her  so  much  pains  ;  he  sent 
away  her  friend,  the  Duke  of  Chevreuse.  This  ominous  severity 

liv.  i.  pp.  73,  &c.   His  account  abounds  suet  writes  her  long,  sensible,  hard- 

in  misrepresentations,  and  does  little  headed  letters,  in  which,  without  much 

more,  in  the  first  part,  than  echo  the  difficulty,   he  exposes  lier  error,   and 

Relation  siir  Ic  Qidi'/ismc  of  Rossuet,  leaves   her  no   ground   to  stand  on. 

to  whom  the  abbe  was  devoted.     But  She,  however,  must  still  humbly  sug- 

his    minuteness    of    detail,    and    the  gest  that  the  exercise  of  love  embraces 

copious  insertion  of  important  letters  all  petitions,   and   that  as  there  is  a 

and  documents  on  cither  side,  give  to  love  without  reflexion,  so  there  may  be 

the  heavy  narrative  considerable  value,  a  prayer  witJiout  reflexion — a  substan- 

In  a  subsequent    interview    between  tial  prayer,  comiDrehcnding  all  others. 

Bossuet  and  Madame  Guyon,  she  de-  — Phclipcaux,  p.  in. 

clarcd  herself  unable  to  pray  for  any  i6  Her  request  was  made  to  Madame 

particular    thing — the    forgiveness    of  de  Maintenon  for  commissioners,   half 

her  sins,  for  instance.     To  do  so  was  clerical,  half  lay,  to  examine  into  the 

to  fail  in  absolute  abandonment  and  scandals   which   had   been   set   afloat 

disinterestedness.  Bossuet  was  shocked,  against    her    c\\?c(diQ,Kc\\—Phclipcaiix, 

Madame  Guyon  promised  and  meant,  liv.  i.  p.  114,  Aiiiobio^qra/>hy,  part  III, 

to  be  all  suijmission  ;  but  conscience  chap.  xv. 
would  be  unmanageable  at  times.  Bos- 


256  Quietism.  [b.  jt. 

confused  and  frightened  her."  She  readily  consented  to  retire 
to  a  convent  in  the  town  of  Meaux,  there  to  be  under  the  sur- 
veillance of  Bossuet.  She  undertook  this  journey  in  the  depth 
of  the  most  frightful  winter  which  had  been  known  for  many 
years ;  the  coach  was  buried  in  the  snow,  and  she  narrowly 
escaped  with  life.  The  commissioners  remained  to  draw  up,  by 
the  fireside,  certain  propositions,  which  should  determine  what 
was,  and  what  was  not,  true  mysticism.  These  constitute  the 
celebrated  Articles  of  Issy. 

Bossuet  repeatedly  visited  Madame  Guyon  at  Meaux.  The 
great  nfan  did  not  disdain  to  approach  the  sick-bed  of  his 
victim,  as  she  lay  in  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion,  and  there 
endeavour  to  overreach  and  terrify  her.  He  demanded  a  sub- 
mission, and  promised  a  favourable  certificate.  The  submission 
he  received,  the  certificate  he  withheld.  He  sought  to  force 
her,  by  threats,  to  sign  that  she  did  not  believe  in  the  Incarna- 
tion. The  more  timid  she  appeared,  the  more  boisterous  and 
imperative  his  tone.  One  day,  he  would  come  with  words  of 
kindness,  on  another,  with  words  of  fury;  yet,  at  the  very 
time,  this  Pilate  could  say  to  some  of  his  brethren,  that  he 
found  no  serious  fault  in  her.  He  declared,  on  one  occasion, 
that  he  was  actuated  by  no  dislike — he  was  urged  to  r"gorous 
measures  by  others ;  on  another,  that  the  submission  of 
Madame  Guyon,  and  the  suppression  of  Quietism,  eftected  by 
his  skill  and  energy,  Avould  be  as  good  as  an  archbishopric  or 

1"  Auiohioi^raphy,  chapp.  xvi.    xvii.  suet,  who  paid  a  visit  without  loss  01 

See  also  her  letter  to  the  three  commis-  time  to  his  metropolitan,  complimented 

sioners,  in  Phclipcaux,  p.  117.    Harlay  him  on  the  censure  he  was  about  to 

heard  with   indignation   of  this  Con-  fulminate,  gave  every  explanation,  and 

ferenceat  Issy,  to  decide  upon  a  heresy  took  his  departure  with  poHte  assur- 

whichhadbeen  unearthed  in  his  diocese,  ances  that  the  verdict  of  Issy  would 

He  endeavoured  to  rouse   tlie  suspi-  but   reiterate   the   condemnation  pro- 

cions  of  Louis,  but  in  vain.    He  deter-  nounced  by  the  vigilant  Archbishop  of 

mined  himself  to  condemn  the  writings  Paris.     So  completely  was  the  cause 

of  Madame  Guyon,  before  tlie  Com-  of  Madame  Guyon  prejudged. — Pheli- 

missioners  could  come  to  a  decision.  eaux,  p.  125. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  mformed  Bos- 


c.  2.]  Bos  Site  t.  ^^y  \ 

a  cardinal's  hat  to  him.  Justice  and  ambition  contended 
within  him  ;  for  a  little  while  the  battle  wavered,  till  presently 
pride  and  jealousy  brought  up  to  the  standard  of  the  latter, 
reinforcements  so  overwhelming,  that  justice  was  beaten  for 
ever  from  the  field.  After  six  months'  residence  at  Meaux, 
Madame  Guyon  received  from  Bossuet  a  certificate  attesting 
her  filial  submissiveness  to  the  Catholic  faith,  his  satisfaction 
with  her  conduct,  authorizing  her  still  to  participate  in  the 
sacrament  of  the  Church,  and  acquitting  her  of  all  implication 
in  the  heresy  of  Molinos.^' 

Meanwhile,  Fene'lon  had  been  added  to  the  number  of  the 
commissioners  at  Issy.  He  and  Bossuet  were  still  on  intimate 
terms  ;  but  Bossuet,  like  all  vain  men,  was  a  dangerous  friend. 
He  knew  how  to  inspire  confidence  which  he  did  not  scruple 
to  betray.  Madame  Guyon,  conscious  of  the  purity  of  her 
life,  of  the  orthodoxy  of  her  intention,  persuaded  that  such  a 
man  must  be  superior  to  the  meaner  motives  of  her  persecu- 
tors, had  placed  in  the  hands  of  Bossuet  her  most  private 
papers,  not  excluding  the  Autobiography^  which  had  not  been 
submitted  even  to  the  eye  of  Fenelon.  To  Bossuet,  Fe'nelon 
had,  in  letters,  unfolded  his  most  secret  thoughts — the  conflicts 
and  aspirations  of  his  spiritual  history,  so  unbounded  was  his 
reliance  on  his  honour,  so  exalted  his  estimate  of  the  judg- 
ment of  that  powerful  mind  in  matters  of  religion.  The  dis- 
closures of  both  were  distorted  and  abused  to  crush  them  ; 
both  had  to  rue  the  day  when  they  trusted  one  who  could 
sacrifice  truth  to  glory.  At  Issy,  the  deference  and  the  can- 
dour of  Fenelon  were  met  by  a  haughty  reserve  on  the  part 
of  Bossuet.  The  meekness  of  Fe'nelon  and  the  timidity  of 
Madame  Guyon  only  inflamed  his  arrogance ;  to  bow  to  him 
wa^  to  be  overborne  ;  to  confront  him  was  at  once  to  secure 

'8  Aiitol'i(\^riiphy,  part  in.  chapp.  xviii.  xix.     Rdponse  a.  la  Rchition,  &c.,  I. 
ii.  3.     Upliain,  vol.  II.  chapp.  x.  and  xi. 

VOL.  II.  S 


i^^  Qidetisni.  [b.  x. 

respect,  if  not  fairness.  The  Articles  were  already  drawn  up 
when  the  signature  of  Fenelon  was  requested.  He  felt  that 
he  should  have  been  allowed  his  fair  share  in  their  construc- 
tion ;  as  they  were,  he  could  not  sign  them ;  he  proposed 
modifications ;  they  were  acceded  to  \  and  the  thirty-four 
Articles  of  Issy  appeared  in  March,  1695,  with  the  name  of 
Fenelon  associated  with  the  other  three." 

VII. 

To  any  one  who  reads  these  Articles,  and  the  letter  written 
by  Fenelon  to  Madame  de  la  Maisonfort,  after  signing  them, 
it  will  be  obvious  that  the  Quietism  of  Fe'ne'lon  went  within  a 
moderate  compass.  When  he  comes  to  explain  his  meaning, 
the  controversy  is  very  much  a  dispute  about  words.  He  did 
not,  like  Madame  Guyon,  profess  to  conduct  devout  minds  by 
a  certain  method  to  the  attainment  of  perfect  disinterested- 
ness. He  only  maintained  the  possibility  of  realizing  a  love 
to  God,  thus  purified  from  self.  He  was  as  fully  aware  as 
his  opponents,  that  to  evince  our  love  to  God  by  willingness 
to  endure  perdition,  was  the  same  thing  as  attesting  our  devo- 
tion to  Him  by  our  readiness  to  hate  Him  for  ever.  Tliis  is 
the  standing  objection  against  the   doctrine  of  disinterested 

13  The  articles  at  first  proposed  to  occupies  all  the  ground  Fenelon  him- 

Fenelon  for  his  signature  were  thirty  self  was  concerned  to  maintain  in  its 

in  number.     The  12th  and  13th,  the  defence.     [Eiitrcticiis  sicr  la  Religion, 

33rd  and  34th,  were  wanting.    He  said  F<5n.   CEuvres,    torn.    i.    p.   34.)     The 

that  he  could  only  sign   these  thirty  article  is  in  substance  as  follows  : — On 

articles  as  they  n<ci-e,  'par  difdrencc,'  pent  inspirer  aux  ames  pein^es  et  vrai- 

and  against  Lis  persuasion.   Two  days  ment  humbles  un  consentement  a  la 

afterwards,  when  the  four  additional  volontd  de   Dieu,    quand  meme,    par 

articles  were  laid  before  him,  he  de-  une  supposition  tres-fausse,  au  lieu  des 

dared  himself  ready  to  sign  them  with  biens  eternels  promis  aux  justes,  il  les 

his   blood.      The  34th  article   is   the  ticndrait  dans  les  tourments  eternels, 

most  important  of  the  four,  as  bearing  sans  neanmoins  les  priver  de  sa  grace 

directly  on  the  most  critical  question  et  de  son  •is.vo.onx.—Rcpoiise  a  la  Kela- 

arising  from   the    doctrine    of    disin-  Hon,  &c.,  chap.  iii.  PhcliJ>eaux,  liv,  i. 

terested  love.     It  allows  that  doctrine  pp.  131,  135-137. 
expressly,  if  words  have  meaning,  and 


c.  2.]  The  Quietism  of  Fenelon.  259 

love.  The  great  Nonconformist  divine,  John  Howe,  urges  it 
with  force.  It  is  embodied  in  the  thirty-second  of  the  Articles 
in  question.  But  it  does  not  touch  Fenelon's  position.  His 
assertion  is,  that  we  should  will  our  own  salvation  only  because 
God  wills  it ;  that,  supposing  it  possible  for  us  to  endure  hell 
torments,  retaining  the  grace  of  God  and  our  consciousness 
that  such  suftering  was  according  to  His  will,  and  conducive  to 
His  glory,  the  soul,  animated  by  pure  love,  would  embrace 
even  such  a  doom.^"  It  is  but  the  supposition  of  an  impossible 
case, — a  supposition,  moreover,  which  involves  a  very  gross 
and  external  conception  of  hell.  It  could  find  no  place  in  a 
mysticism  like  that  of  Behmen  or  Swedenborg,  where  hell  is 
regarded,  much  more  truly,  less  as  an  infliction  from  without, 
than  as  the  development  of  dominant  evil  from  within.  The 
Quietism  of  Fenelon  does  not  preclude  the  reflex  actions  of 
the  mind,  or  confine  the  spirit  of  the  adept  to  the  sphere  of 
the  immediate.  It  forbids  only  the  introspection  of  self-com- 
placency."^ It  does  not  merge  distinct  acts  in  a  continuous 
operation,  nor  discourage  effort  for  self-advancement  in  holi- 
ness, or  for  the  benefit  of  others — it  only  teaches  us  to 
moderate  that  impatience  which  has  its  origin  in  self,  and 
declares  that  our  own  co-operation  becomes,  in  certain  cases, 
unconscious — is,  as  it  were,  lost  in  a  'special  facility.'"  The 
indefatigable  benevolence  of  his  life  abundantly  repudiates  the 
slanderous  conclusion  of  his  adversaries,  that  the  doctrine  of 
indifference  concerning  the  future,  involves  indifierence  like- 
wise to  moral  good  and  evil  in  the  present.  Bossuet  himself 
is  often  as   mystical   as  Fenelon,  sometimes   more  so."^     St. 

^  See  Note  on  p.  278.  to  Madame  Maintenon,    '  Quelque  rc- 

''  See  second  Note  on  p.  278.  spect  et  quelque  admiration  quej'aie 

"  See  Note  on  p.  279.  pour  Sainte  Theiesc,  je  n'aurais  jamais 

"3  Witness  the  panegyrics  of  Bossuet  voulu  donner  au  public  tout  ce  quelle 

on  Theresa' and  John   of  the  Cross.  aecrit." — Corrcipoiidiince,^,'^:  Bossuet, 

Compare  also  their  different  verdicts  writing  to  Madame  Gu)'on,  says,  'Je 

on  the  former.     Fenelon  says,  writing  n'ai  jamais  hesite  un  scul  moment  suv 

S  3 


26o  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

f>ancis  de  Sales  and  Madame  de  Chantal  said  the  very  same 
things, — not  to  mention  the  unbridled  utterances  of  the  earlier 
and  the  mediaeval  mystics  canonized  by  the  Church  of  Rome. 
Could  the  controversy  have  been  confined  to  the  real  question, 
no  harm  would  have  been  done.  It  would  have  resembled  the 
duel,  in  Ben  Jonson's  play,  between  Fastidious  Brisk  and 
Signor  I'untarvolo,  where  the  rapiers  cut  through  taffeta  and 
lace,  gold  embroidery  and  satin  doublets,  but  nowhere  enter 
the  skin.  Certain  terms  and  certain  syllogisms,  a  well-starched 
theory,  or  an  argument  trimmed  with  the  pearls  of  eloquence — 
might  have  been  transfixed  or  rent  by  a  dexterous  pen,  on  this 
side  or  on  that,  but  the  prize  of  the  conqueror  would  not  have 
been  court  favour,  nor  the  penalty  of  the  conquered,  exile. 
Theologians  might  have  written,  for  a  few,  the  learned  history 
of  a  logical  campaign,  but  the  eyes  of  Europe  would  never 
have  been  turned  to  a  conflict  for  fame  and  fortune  raging  in 
the  Vatican  and  at  Versailles,  enlisting  every  religious  party 
throughout  Roman-catholic  Christendom,  and  involving  the 
rise  or  fall  of  some  of  the  most  illustrious  names  among  the 
churchmen  and  nobility  of  France. 

VIII. 

The  writings  of  Madame  Guyon  had  now  been  condemned, 
though  without  mention  of  her  name  ;  Bossuet  had  intimated 
that  he  required  nothing  further  from  her ;  she  began  to  hope 
that  the  worst  might  be  over,  and  returned  with  her  friends 
from  Meaux  to  Paris,  to  live  there  as  much  retired  as  possible. 
This  flight,  which  he  chose  to  call  dishonourable,  irritated  Bos- 
suet.    She  had  suffered  him  to  see  that  she  could  trust  him  no 

les  etats  de  Sainte  Therese,  parceque  certain    miraculous    suspensions  (ini- 

le  n'v  ai  rien  troiive,  que  je  ne  trouvasse  puissances)  from  which  Fenelon  shrinks 

:iuss'idansl'Ecriture,'&c. — Phdipeaux,  — which  he  would  have  located  in  some 

liv.  i.  p.  104.     In  tiie  Instnutions  siir  section  Faux  of  his  Maxims — and  to 

Ics  Era/s  d  Oraisoii,  Bossuet,  in  speak-  which  Noailles  refused  his  approval. — 

ing  of  the  passive  state,  had  allowed  of  Ri-pouse  a  la  Relation,  xxviii.  and  Ixii. 


c.  2-]  Boss  net's  Instructions.  261 

longer.  He  endeavoured  to  recover  the  certificate  he  had 
given.  An  order  was  procured  for  her  arrest.  The  pohce 
observed  that  a  house  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  was  ahvays 
entered  by  a  pass-key.  They  made  their  way  in,  and  found 
Madame  Guyon.  They  brought  away  their  prisoner,  ill  as  she 
was,  and  the  king  was  induced,  with  much  difficulty,  to  sign  an 
order  for  her  incarceration  at  Vincennes.  The  despot  thought 
a  convent  might  suffice, — not  so  the  persecutors." 

Bossuet  had  been  for  some  time  occupied  in  writing  a  work 
which  should  demolish  with  a  blow  the  doctrine  of  Madame 
Guyon,  and  hold  her  up  to  general  odium.  It  consisted  of 
ten  books,  and  was  entitled  Instructions  on  the  States  of  Prayer. 
He  showed  the  manuscript  to  Fenelon,  desiring  him  to  append 
a  statement,  approving  all  it  contained,  which  should  accom- 
pany the  volume  when  published.  Fenelon  refused.  Six  months 
ago  he  had  declared  that  he  could  be  no  party  to  a  personal 
attack  on  Madame  Guyon  :  the  Instructions  contained  little 
else.  That  tremendous  attack  was  no  mere  exposure  of  un- 
guarded expressions — no  mere  deduction  of  dangerous  conse- 
quences, possibly  unforeseen  by  a  half-educated  writer ;  it 
charged  Madame  Guyon  with  having  for  her  sole  design  the 
inculcation  o.  a  false  spirituality,  which  abandoned,  as  an 
imperfection,  faith  in  the  divine  Persons  and  the  humanity 
of  Christ;  which  disowned  the  authority  of  Scripture,  of  tradi- 
tion, of  morality ;  which  dispensed  with  vocal  prayer  and 
acts  of   worship  ;    which  established  an  impious    and    brutal 

-■'  Her  letter  to  Bossuet  furnishes  a  Lion-heart ,  but  these,   said  Afaclann' 

fair  justification  of  this  retreat  to  Paris.  Guyon,   belonijed  to   the   lacqueys  of 

— Phelipeaux,  liv.  i.  p.  152.     It  grati-  her  son,   a  lieutenant   in  the  guards, 

fies  our  curiosity   to  learn   from    this  But  she  acknowledged  a  Griscldis  and 

authority  what  books  were  seized  when  Don  Quixote  as  her  Ijooks.     It  is  pleas- 

Deigresi  ihedetective,  entered  the  little  ing  to  find  our  fair  saint,  so  far  of  like 

house  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  in  passions  with  ourselves,  amused  with 

the  name  of  the   king.      There   were  Sancho,  and  pitying  Griseldis, — herself 

some  plays  of  Moliere,  some  romances,  a    patient    sufferer    a    the   hands    of 

such  as  John  of  Paris  and  Richard  blinded,  pitiless  men. 


2^2  Quietism.  v^  ^ 

indifference  between  vice  and  virtue,  between  everlasting  hate 
of  God   and    everlasting    love;    which  forbade  resistance  to 
temptation  as  an  interruption    to    repose;    which    taught   an 
imaginary  perfection  extinguishing  the  nobler  desires  only  to 
inflame  the  lower,  and  clothing  the  waywardness  of  self-will 
and  passion  with  the  authority  of  inspiration  and  of  prophecy. 
Fenelon  knew  that  this  accusation  was  one  mass  of  falsehood. 
If  Bossuet  himself  believed  it,   why  had  he  suffered  such  a 
monster  still  to  commune;  why  had  he  been  so  faithless  to 
his  high  office   in    the    Church,   as  to  give   his  testimonials 
declaring  the  purity  of  her  purpose  and  the  soundness  of  her 
faith,  when  he  had  not  secured  the  formal  retraction  of  a  single 
error?     To  sign  his  approval  of  that    book,   would  be   not 
merely  a  cowardly  condemnation  of  a  woman  whom  he  knew 
to   be  innocent— it  would  be  the  condemnation  of  himself. 
His  acquaintance  with  Madame  Guyon  was  matter  of  notoriety.' 
It  would  be  to  say  that  he— a  student  of  theology,  a  priest,  an 
archbishop,  the  preceptor  of  princes— had  not  only  refrained 
from  denouncing,  but  had  honoured  with   his  friendship,  the 
teacher  of  an  abominable  spiritualism  which  abolished  the'first 
principles  of  right  and  wrong.     It  would  be  to  declare,  in  fact, 
such   a   prelate  far   more   guilty  than  such  a  heretic.     And 
Bossuet   pretended    to  be  his  friend— Bossuet,  who  had  laid 
the  snare  which  might  have  been  the  triumph  of  the   most 
malignant  enemy.     It  was  not  a  mere  question  of  persons— 
Madame  Guyon  might  die  in  prison— he   himself  might  be 
defamed  and   disgraced— he    did    not  mean  to  become  her 
champion— surely  that  was  enough,  knowing  what  he  knew,— 
let  her  enemies  be  satisfied  with  his  silence— he  could  not 
suffer  another  man  to  take  his  pen  out  of  his  hand  to  denounce 
as  an  emissary  of  Satan  one  whom  he  believed  to  be  a  child 
of  God." 

*  See  Note  on  p.  280. 


2.]  Difficulties  of  Fcncloiis  Position.  263 


Such  was  Feiielon's  position.  He  wished  to  be  silent  con- 
cerning Madame  Guyon.  To  assent  to  the  charges  brought 
ao-ainst  her  would  not  have  been  even  a  serviceable  lie,  if  sucli 
a°raan  could  have  desired  to  escape  the  wrath  of  Bossuet  at  so 
scandalous  a  price.  Every  one  would  have  said  that  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Cambray  had  denounced  his  accomplice  out  of  fear. 
Neither  was  he  prepared  to  embrace  the  opposite  extreme  and 
to  defend  the  personal  cause  of  the  accused,  many  of  whose 
expressions  he  thought  questionable,  orthodox  as  might  be  her 
explanation,  and  many  of  whose  extravagances  he  disapproved. 
His  enemies  wished  to  force  him  to  speak,  and  were  prepared 
to  damage  his  reputation  whether  he  appeared  for  or  against 
the  prisoner  at  Vincennes.  At  length  it  became  necessary  that 
he  should  break  silence  ;  and  when  he  did,  it  was  not  to  pro- 
nounce  judgment  concerning  the  oppressed  or  her  oppressors, 
it  was  to  investigate  the  abstract  question,— the  teaching  of  the 
Church  on  the  doctrine  of  pure  love.  He  wrote  the  Maxims 
of  the  Saints. 

IX. 

This  celebrated  book  appeared  in  January,  1697,  while 
Fenelon  was  at  Cambray,  amazing  the  Flemings  of  his  diocese 
by  affording  them,  in  their  new  archbishop,  the  spectacle  of  a 
church  dignitary  who  really  cared  for  his  flock,  who  consigned 
the  easier  duties  to  his  vicars,  and  reserved  the  hardest  for 
himself;  who  entered  their  cottages  like  a  father,  Hstened  with 
interest  to  the  story  of  their  hardships  or  their  griefs  ;  who  con- 
soled, counselled,  and  relieved  them  ;  who  partook  of  their 
black  bread  as  though  he  had  never  shared  the  banquets  of 
Versailles,  and  as  though  Paris  were  to  him,  as  to  themselves, 
a  wonderful  place  far  away,  whose  streets  were  paved  with 
gold.  Madarne  Guyon  was  in  confinement  at  the  village  of 
Vaugirard,  whither  the  compassion  of  Noailles  had  transferred 
her  from  Vincennes,  resigned  and  peaceful,  wiiting  poetry  and 


2^4  Quietism. 


[b.  X. 


singing  hymns  with  her  pious  servant-girl,  the  faithful  companion 
of  her  misfortunes.  Bossuet  was  visiting  St.  Cyr— very  busy 
in  endeavouring  to  purify  the  theology  of  the  young  ladies 
from  all  taint  of  Quietism— but  quite  unsuccessful  in  recon- 
ciling Madame  de  la  Maisonfort  to  the  loss  of  her  beloved 
Fenelon. 

The  Maxims  of  the  Saints  was  an  exposition  and  vindication 
of  the  doctrines  of  pure  love,  of  mystical  union,  and  of  per- 
fection, as  handed  down  by  some  of  the  most  illustrious  and 
authoritative  names  in  the  Roman-catholic  Church,  from 
Dionysius,  Clement,  and  Augustine,  to  John  of  the  Cross  and 
Francis  de  Sales  ; — it  explained  their  terminology ;— it  placed 
in  juxtaposition  with  every  article  of  legitimate-  mysticism  its 
false  correlative— the  use  and  the  abuse  ;— and  was,  in  fact, 
though  not  expressly,  a  complete  justification  (on  the  principles 
of  his  Church)  of  that  moderate  Quietism  held  by  himself,  and 
in  substance  by  Madame  Guyon.''  The  book  was  approved 
by  Tronson,  by  Fleury,  by  Hebert,  by  Pirot,  a  doctor  of  the 
Sorbonne,  by  Pere  la  Chaise,  the  King's  Confessor,  by  the 
Jesuits  of  Clermont,— but  it  was  denounced  by  Bossuet;  it 
was  nicknamed  the  Bible  of  the  Little  Church  ;  Pontchartrain, 
the  comptroller-general,  and  Maurice  Le  Tellier,  Archbishop  of 
Rheims,  told  the  King  that  it  was  fit  only  for  knaves  or  fools. 
Louis  sent  for  Bossuet.  The  Bishop  of  Meaux  cast  himself 
theatrically  at  the  feet  of  majesty,  and,  with  pretended  tears, 
implored  forgiveness  for  not  earlier  revealing  the  heresy  of  liis 
unhappy  brother.  A  compromise  was  yet  possible;  for  Fenelon 
was  ready  to  explain  his  explanations,  and  to  suppress  whatever 
miglit  be  pronounced  dangerous  in  his  pages.      But  the  eagle 

of  Meaux  had  seen  the  meek  and  dove-like  Fenelon once 

nlraost  more  his  disciple  than  his  friend— erect  the  standard  of 
independence,  and  assume  the  port  of  a  rival.     His  pride  was 

-"  See  second  Note  on  p.  280. 


c.  2.]  The  Appeal  to  Rome.  265 

roused.  He  was  resolved  to  reign  alone  on  the  ecclesiastical 
Olympus  of  the  Court,  and  he  would  not  hear  of  a  peace  that 
might  rob  him  of  a  triumph.  Did  Fenelon  pretend  to  shelter 
himself  by  great  names, — he,  Bossuet,  would  intrench  himself 
within  the  awful  sanctuary  of  the  Church;  he  represented 
religion  in  France  ;  he  would  resent  every  attack  upon  his  own 
opinions  as  an  assault  on  the  Catholic  faith  ;  he  had  the  ear  of 
the  King,  with  whom  heresy  and  treason  were  identical ;  suc- 
cess was  all  but  assured,  and,  if  so,  war  was  glory.  Such 
tactics  are  not  peculiar  to  the  seventeenth  century.  In  our 
own  day,  every  one  implicated  in  religious  abuses  identifies 
himself  with  religion, — brands  every  exposure  of  his  misconduct 
as  hostility  to  the  cause  of  God, — invests  his  miserable  perso- 
nality with  the  benign  grandeur  of  the  Gospel, — and  stigmatizes 
as  troublers  in  Israel  all  who  dare  to  inquire  into  his  procedure, 
— while  innumerable  dupes  or  cowards  sleepily  believe,  or  cau- 
tiously pretend  to  do  so,  that  those  who  have  management  in 
a  good  object  must  themselves  be  good. 

X. 

Fenelon  now  requested  the  royal  permission  to  appeal  to 
Rome ;  he  obtained  it,  but  was  forbidden  to  repair  thither  to 
plead  in  person  the  cause  of  his  book,  and  ordered  to  quit  the 
Court  and  confine  himself  to  his  diocese.  The  King  went  to 
St.  Cyr,  and  expelled  thence  three  young  ladies,  for  an  oftence 
he  could  not  in  reality  comprehend, — the  sin  of  Quietism." 
Intrigue  was  active,  and  the  Duke  de  Beauvilliers  was  nearly 
losing  his  place  in  the  royal  household  because  of  his  attach- 
ment to  Fenelon.  The  Duke— noble  in  spirit  as  in  name,  and 
worthy  of  such  a  friendship, — boldly  told  Le  Grciiide  Monarque 
that  he  was  ready  to  leave  the  palace  rather  than  to  forsake  his 
friend.     Six  days  before  the  banishment  of  Fenelon,  Louis  had 

■•'7  Baussett,  Hisloire  de  Fenelon,  liv.  iii.  p.  45.     See  also  Note  on  p.  281. 


266  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

sent  to  Innocent  XII.  a  letter,  drawn  up  by  Bossuet,  saying  in 
effect  that  the  Maxims  had  been  condemned  at  Paris,  that 
everything  urged  in  its  defence  was  futile,  and  that  the  royal 
authority  would  be  exerted  to  the  utmost  to  execute  the  decision 
of  the  pontifical  chair.  Bossuet  naturally  calculated  that  a 
missive,  thus  intimating  the  sentence  Infallibility  was  expected 
by  a  great  monarch  to  pronounce, — arriving  almost  at  the 
same  time  with  the  news  of  a  disgrace  reserved  only  for  the 
most  grave  offences, — would  secure  the  speedy  condemnation 
of  Fenelon's  book. 

At  Rome  commenced  a  series  of  deliberations  destined  to 
extend  over  a  space  of  nearly  two  years.  Two  successive  bodies 
of  adjudicators  were  impanelled  and  dissolved,  unable  to  arrive 
at  a  decision.  A  new  congregation  of  cardinals  was  selected, 
who  held  scores  of  long  and  wearisome  debates,  while  rumour 
and  intrigue  alternately  heightened  or  depressed  the  hopes  of 
either  party.^^  To  write  the  Maxi?ns  of  the  Saints  was  a 
delicate  task.  It  was  not  easy  to  repudiate  the  mysticism  of 
Molinos  without  impugning  the  mysticism  of  St.  Theresa.  But 
the  position  of  these  judges  was  more  delicate  yet.  It  was 
still  less  easy  to  censure  Fenelon  without  rendering  suspicious, 
at  the  least,  the  orthodoxy  of  the  most  shining  saints  in  tlie 
Calendar.  On  the  one  hand,  there  might  be  risk  of  a  schism; 
on  the  other  pressed  the  urgency  and  the  influence  of  a 
powerful  party,  the  impatience,  almost  the  menaces  of  a  great 
king. 

The  real  question  was  simply  this, — Is  disinterested  love 
possible  ?  Can  man  love  God  for  His  own  sake  alone,  with  a 
love,  not  excluding,  but  subordinating  all  other  persons  and 
objects,  so  that  they  shall  be  regarded  only  in  God  who  is 

2S  Bausset,  Hist,  de  Fdiiilon,  liv.  iii.  in  Phelipeaux. — See  .'*lso  Metnoirs  of 

47.     A  minute,  though  very  partial  ac-  Madame  de  Maintenon,  xi.  19.     Corr, 

count  of  all  the  squabbles  and  intrigues  de  F6n6lon,  lettre  108. 
at  Rome,  from  first  to  last,  may  be  read 


c.  2.]  The  Strife  grows  hot.  267 

All  in  All  ?  If  so,  is  it  dangerous  to  assert  the  possibility,  to 
commend  this  divine  ambition,  as  Fenelon  has  done  ?  But  the 
discussion  was  complicated  and  inflamed  by  daily  slander  and 
recrimination,  by  treachery  and  insinuation,  and  by  the  honest 
anger  they  provoke  ;  by  the  schemes  of  personal  ambition,  by 
the  rivalry  of  religious  parties,  by  the  political  intrigues  of  the 
State,  by  the  political  intrigues  of  the  Church  ;  by  the  interests 
of  a  crew  of  subaltern  agents,  who  loved  to  fish  in  muddy 
waters ;  and  by  the  long  cherished  animosity  between  Gallican 
and  Ultramontanist.  Couriers  pass  and  repass  continually 
between  Rome  and  Cambray,  between  Rome  and  Paris.  The 
Abbe  Bossuet  writes  constantly  from  Rome  to  the  Bishop  of 
Meaux  ;  the  Abbe  de  Chanterac  from  the  same  city  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Cambray.  Chanterac  writes  like  a  faithful 
friend  and  a  good  man  ;  he  labours  day  and  night  in  the  cause 
of  Fenelon ;  he  bids  him  be  of  good  cheer  and  put  his  trust  in 
God.  The  letters  of  the  Abbe  Bossuet  to  his  uncle  are  worthy 
a  familiar  of  the  Inquisition.  After  circulating  calumnies 
against  the  character  of  Madame  Guyon,  after  hinting  that 
F^'enelon  was  a  partaker  of  her  immoralities  as  well  as  of  her 
heresy,  and  promising,  with  each  coming  post,  to  produce  fresh 
confessions  and  new  discoveries  of  the  most  revolting  licen- 
tiousness, he  sits  down  to  urge  Bossuet  to  second  his  eftbrts 
by  procuring  the  banishment  of  every  friend  whom  Fenelon 
yet  has  at  Court ;  and  to  secure,  by  a  decisive  blow  in 
Paris,  the  ruin  of  that '  wild  beast,'  Fenelon,  at  Rome.  Bossuet 
lost  no  time  in  acting  on  the  suggestion  of  so  base  an  instru- 
ment."' 

XI. 

At  Paris  a  hot  war  of  letters,  pamphlets,  and  treatises,  was 
maintained  by  the  leaders,  whose  quarrel  everywhere  divided 
the  city  and  the  court  into  two  hostile  encampments.    Fenelon 

22  Bausset,  iii.  48-50  ;  Aim^-Martin,  Etudes  sur  la  Vie  de  Finilon,  p.  14- 


^^^  Quietism.  ^^  ^ 

offered  a  resistance  Bossuet  had  never  anticipated,   and  the 
veteran  polemic   was  deeply  mortified  to  see  public  opinion 
doubtful,  whether  he  or  a  younger  rival  had  won  the  laurels  in 
argument  and  eloquence.     In  an   evil  hour  for  his  fame  he 
resolved  to  crush  his  antagonist  at  all  costs;  he  determined 
that  the  laws  of  honourable  warfare  should  be  regarded  no  more 
that  no  confidence  should  be  any  longer  sacred.  In  the  summer 
of  1 698  the  storm  burst  upon  the  head  of  the  exile  at  Cambra)- 
Early  in  June,  Fenelon  heard  that  the  Abbe  de  Beaumont    his 
nephew,  and  the  Abbe  de  Langeron,  his  friend,  had  been'  dis- 
missed m  disgrace  from  the  office  of  sub-preceptors  to  the  youn  r 
Duke  of  Burgundy  ;  that  Dupuy  and  De  Leschelles,  had  been 
banished  the  Court  because  of  their  attachment  to  him  •  that 
his  brother  had  been  expelled  from  the  marine,  and  a  son  of 
Madame  Guyon  from  the  guards;  that  the  retiring  and  pacific 
Fleury  had  narrowly  escaped  ignominy  for  a  similar  cause  • 
that  the  Dukes  of  Beauvilliers,  Chevreuse,  and  Guiche    were 
themselves  menaced,  and  the  prospect  of  their  downfall  openly 
discussed;  and  that  to  correspond  with  him  was  hereafter  a 
crime  against  the  State.     Within  a  month,  another  Job's  mes- 
senger brought  him  tidings  that  Bossuet  had  produced  a  book 
entitled   An  Account  of  Quietism~^x,   attack  so  terrible  that 
the  dismay  of  his  remaining  friends  had  almost  become  despair 
Bossuet  possessed  three  formidable  weapons-his  influence  as 
a  courtier,  his  authority  as  a  priest,  his  powers  as  an  author 
He  wielded  them  all  at  once,  and  all  of  them  dishonourably 
If  he  was  unfair  in  the  first  capacity,  when  he  invoked  the 
thunders  of  royalty  to  ruin  the  cause  of  a  theological  opponent 
—if  he  was  unfair  in  the  second,  when  he  denounced  forbear- 
ance and  silenced  intercession  as  sins  against  God,— he  was 
yet  more  so  in  the  third,  when  he  employed  all  his  gifts,  to  weave 
into   a   malignant   tissue   of  falsehood  and  exaggeration   the 
memoirs  of  Madame  Guyon,  the  correspondence  of  F^neloa 


t.  f.]  Fmeloiis  Reply.  269 

with  Madame  de  Maintenon,  and  his  former  confidential  letters 
to  himself — letters  on  spiritual  matters  to  a  spiritual  guide- 
letters  which  should  have  been  sacred  as  the  secresy  of  the  Con- 
fessional. The  sensation  created  by  the  Account  of  Quictisin 
was  prodigious.  Bossuet  presented  his  book  to  the  King,  whose 
approval  was  for  every  parasite  the  authentication  of  all  its 
slanders.  Madame  de  Maintenon,  with  her  own  hand,  distributed 
copies  among  the  courtiers  ;  in  the  salon  of  Marly  nothing  else 
was  talked  of;  in  the  beautiful  gardens  groups  of  lords  and 
ladies,  such  as  Watteau  would  have  loved  to  paint,  were 
gathered  on  the  grass,  beside  the  fountains,  beneath  the  trees, 
to  hear  it  read ;  it  was  begged,  borrowed,  stolen,  greedily 
snatched,  and  delightedly  devoured  ;  its  anecdotes  were  so 
pic^uant,  its  style  so  sparkling,  its  bursts  of  indignant  eloquence 
so  grand;  gay  ladies,  young  and  old,  dandies,  wits,  and  liber- 
tines, found  its  scandal  so  delicious, —  Madame  Guyon  was  so 
exquisitely  ridiculous,- — La  Combe,  so  odious  a  Tartuffe, — 
f'enelon,  so  pitiably  displumed  of  all  his  shining  virtues  ;  and, 
what  was  best  of  all,  the  insinuations  were  worse  than  the 
charges, — the  book  gave  much  and  promised  more, — it  hinted 
at  disclosures  more  disgraceful  yet,  and  gave  free  scope  to 
every  malicious  invention  and  every  prurient  conjecture.'^" 

XII. 

The  generous  Fenelon,  more  thoughtful  for  others  than  for 
himself,  at  first  hesitated  to  reply  even  to  such  a  provocation, 
lest  he  should  injure  the  friends  who  yet  remained  to  him  at 
Versailles.  But  he  was  soon  convinced  that  their  position,  as 
much  as  his,  rendered  an  answer  imperative.  He  received  Bos- 
suet's  book  on  the  8th  of  July,  and  by  the  13th  of  August  his 
defence  had  been  written,  printed,  and  arrived  at  Rome,  to  glad 
den  the  heart  of  poor  Chanterac,  to  stop  the  mouth  of  the  enemy, 

3"  Bausset,  53-4  ;  Mem.  0/  MainUnoii,  xi.  20;  Amie-Martin,  15. 


^70  Quietism.  ^  ^^ 

and  to  turn  the  tide  once  more  in  behalf  of  his  failing  party. 
This  refutation,  written  with  such  rapidity,  and  under  such  dis- 
advantages, was  a  masterpiece,— it  redeemed  his  character  from 
every  calumny,— it  raised  his  reputation  to  its  height,-it  would 
have  decided  a  fair  contest  completely  in  his  favour.     It  was 
composed  when  his  spirit  was  oppressed  by  sorrow  for  the  ruiir 
of  his  friends,  and  darkened  by  the  apprehension  of  new  injuries 
which  his  justification  might  provoke,— by  a  proscribed  man  at 
Cambray,  remote  from  the  assistance  and  appliances  most  need- 
ful,—without  a  friend  to  guide  or  to  relieve  the  labour  of  arrang- 
ing and  transcribing  documents  and  of  verifying  dates,  where 
scrupulous  accuracy  was  of  vital  importance,— when  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  procure  correct  intelligence  from  Paris,  and  hazardous  to 
write  thither  lest  he  should  compromise  his  correspondents  — 
when  even  his  letters  to  Chanterac  were  not  safe  from  inspection 
-Avhen  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  printer  for  such  a  book' 
and  yet  more  so  to  secure  its  circulation  in  the  metropolis.  As  it 
was,  D'Argenson,  the  lieutenant  of  police,-a  functionary  pour- 
trayed  by  his  contemporaries  as  at  once  the  ugliest  and  most 
unprincipled  of  men,-seized  a  package  of  seven  hundred  copies 
at  the  gates  of  Paris.     The  Reply  appeared,  however,  and  was 
eagerly  read.     Even  the  few  who  were  neutral,  the  many  who 
were  envious,  the  host  who  were  prejudiced,  could  not  withhold 
their  admu-ation  from  that  lucid  and  elegant  style— that  digni- 
fied  and  unaff-ected  eloquence;  numbers  yielded,  in  secret,  at 
least,  to  the  force  of  such  facts  and  such  arguments;  while  all 
were  astonished  at  the  skill  and  self-command  with  which  the  au- 
thor  had  justified  his  whole  career  without  implicating  a  single 
friend  ;  and  leaving  untouched  the  shield  of  every  other  adver- 
sary, had  concentrated  all  his  force  on  exposing  the  contradic- 
tions, the  treachery,  and  the  falsehood  of  Bossuet's  accusation.^^ 
«  Bausset,   59-61.     The  means  to     hoods  he  could  coollv  reneat  aft^r  a. 
wbch  Bossuet  could  stoop-the  false-      tection,  as  though  nothTnghadhap* 


.]  The  Papal  Verdict.  271 


The  controversy  now  draws  to  a  close.  Bossuet  published 
Remarks  on  the  Reply  of  Fenelon,  and  Fenelon  rejoined  with 
Remarks  on  the  Remarks  of  Bossuet.  Sixty  loyal  doctors  of 
the  Sorbonne  censured  twelve  propositions,  in  the  Maxims, 
while  Rome  was  yet  undecided.  Towards  the  close  of  the  same 
year  (1698)  Louis  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Po}' j,  yet  more  indecently 
urgent  than  his  former  one,  demanding  a  thorough  condenina- 
tion  of  so  dangerous  a  book ;  and  this  epistle  he  seconded  by  de- 
priving Fenelon,  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  of  the  title  and  pension 
of  preceptor — that  pension  which  Fenelon  had  once  nobly 
offered  to  return  to  a  treasury  exhausted  by  ambitious  wars.*' 

Innocent  XII.  had  heard,  with  indignant  sorrow,  of  the 
arbitrary  measures  adopted  against  Fenelon  and  his  friends. 
He  was  mortified  by  the  arrogance  of  Louis,  by  the  attempts  so 
openly  made  to  forestall  his  judgment.  He  was  accustomed  to 
say  that  Cambray  had  erred  through  excess  of  love  to  God ; 
Meaux,  by  want  of  love  to  his  neighbour.  But  Louis  was 
evidently  roused,  and  it  was  not  safe  to  provoke  him  too  far. 
After  a  last  eftbrt  at  a  compromise,  the  Pope  yielded  \  and 
the  cardinals  pronounced  a  condemnation,  far  less  complete, 
however,  than  the  vehemence  of  the  accusers  had  hoped  to 
secure.  Twenty-three  propositions  extracted  from  tlie  Maxims, 
were  censured,  but  the  Pontiff  openly  declared  that  such 
censure  did  not  extend  to  the  explanations  which  the 
Archbishop  of  Cambray  had  given  of  his  book.     This  sentence 

pcned— the  misquotation,  and  misre-  with  which  he  cahimniates — as  though 

presentation — the    constant    reply    to  it  almost  broke  his  heart  to  write  what 

awkwardly  pressing  arguments  by  ma-  he    exults    in    writing.      Well   might 

licious  personalities — all  these   things  Fenelon   request   that    he  would   not 

are  exposed  in  Fenelon's   Lcttrcs   en  weep  over  him  so  profusely  while  he 

Kcponsc,    and  in  the    K^poasc    itself.  tore  liim  in  pieces,   and  desire  fewer 

They  are  bad  enough  ;  but  the  student  tears   and  more  fair  play  !     See   the 

uf  controversy  is  accustomed  to  this  Preface  to  the  Rdponsc;  Ht'porise,  59; 

imperturbable  lying,    to  these  arts  of  and  Rt'poiise  aux  Rcmarqucs,  §  vi. 
insinuation.     The  most  detestable  fea-  ■'-  Bausset,  iii.  63,  69  ;  Upham,  vol. 

ture  of  all  in  the  part  played  by  Bossuet,  ii.  p.  289. 
lies  in  that  sleek  cant  and  tearful  uacticn 


2/2  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

was  delivered  on  the  1 2th  of  March,  1699.  The  submission 
of  Fe'nelon  is  famous  in  history.  He  received  the  intelligence 
as  he  was  about  to  ascend  the  pulpit ;  he  changed  his  subject, 
and  preached  a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  submission  to  superiors/^ 
Bossuet  endeavoured,  in  vain,  to  represent  the  obedience  which 
was  the  first  to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  self-condemnation,  as 
a  profound  hypocrisy. 

xiir. 
Madame  Guyon  lingered  for  four  years  a  solitary  prisoner  in 
the  dungeons  of  the  Bastile.  In  the  same  tower  was  confined 
the  Man  of  the  Iron  Mask,  and  she  may  have  heard,  in  her 
cell,  the  melancholy  notes  of  the  guitar  with  which  her  fellow- 
prisoner  beguiled  a  captivity  whose  horrors  had  then  lasted 
seven-and-thirty  years.  There,  a  constitution  never  strong, 
was  broken  down  by  the  stony  chill  of  rigorous  winters,  and  by 
the  noxious  vapours  which  steamed  from  the  stagnant  moat  in 
summer.'*  She  was  liberated  in  1702,  and  sent  to  Blois,— a 
picturesque  old  city,  whose  steep  and  narrow  streets,  cut  into 
innumerable  steps,  overlook  tbe  Loire,— crowned  on  the  one 
side  by  its  fine  church,  and  on  the  other  by  the  royal  chateau, 
memorable  for  the  murder  of  the  Guises ;  its  massive  propor- 
tions adorned  by  the  varying  tastes  of  successive  generations, 
then  newly  beautified  after  the  designs  of  Mansard,  and  now 
a  ruin,  the  delight  of  every  artist.  There  she  lived  in  quiet, 
sought  out  from  time  to  time  by  visitors  from  distant  provinces 
and  other  lands, — as  patient  under  the  infirmity  of  declining  age 
as  beneath  the  persecutions  of  her  earlier  years, — finding,  as 
she  had  always  done,  some  sweet  in  every  bitter  cup,  and  a 
theme  for  praise  in  every  trial,  purified  by  her  long  afflictions, 
elevated  by  her  hope  of  glory,  full  of  charity  and  full  of  peace, 
resigned  and  happy  to  the  last.     Her  latest  letter  is  dated  in 

Bausset,  ^7,  78.  ^  Upham,  vol.  ii.  ch.  18. 


c.  2.]  Death  of  Madeline  Guyon.  ?73 

17 1 7, — Bossuet  had  departed,  and  F(5n^lon, — and  before  the 
close  of  that  year,  she  also,  the  subject  of  such  long  and  bitlcr 
strife,  had  been  removed  beyond  all  the  tempests  of  this  lower 
world. 

In  the  judicial  combats  of  ancient  Germany,  it  was  the 
custom  to  place  in  the  centre  of  the  lists  a  bier,  beside  which 
stood  the  accuser  and  the  accused,  at  the  head  and  at  the  foot, 
leaning  there  for  some  time  in  solemn  silence  before  they  laid 
lance  in  rest  and  encountered  in  the  deadly  shock.  Would 
that  religious  controversialists  had  oftener  entered  and  main- 
tained their  combat  as  alike  in  view  of  that  final  appeal  in  the 
unseen  world  of  truth — with  a  deeper  and  more  abiding  sense 
of  that  supreme  tribunal  before  which  so  many  differences 
vanish,  and  where  none  but  he  who  has  striven  lawfully  can 
receive  a  crown.  Bossuet  was  regarded  as  the  champion  of 
Hope,  and  drew  his  sword,  it  was  said,  lest  sacrilegious  hands 
should  remove  her  anchor.  Fe'nelon  girded  on  his  arms  to 
defend  the  cause  of  Charity.  Alas  !  said  the  Pope— heart- 
sick of  the  protracted  conflict — they  forget  that  it  is  Faith  who 
is  in  danger.  Among  the  many  witty  sayings  which  the  dispute 
suggested  to  the  lookers-on,  perhaps  one  of  the  most  significant 
is  that  attributed  to  the  daughter  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  '  M. 
de  Cambray,'  said  she,  '  pleads  well  the  cause  of  God,  but  INI. 
de  Meaux  yet  better  that  of  religion,  and  cannot  fail  to  win  the 
day  at  Rome.'  Fen^lon  undertook  to  show  that  his  semi- 
Quietism  was  supported  by  the  authority  of  ecclesiastical  tra- 
dition, and  he  was  unquestionably  in  the  right.  He  might 
have  sustained,  on  Romanist  principles,  a  doctrine  much  less 
moderate,  by  the  same  argument.  But  it  was  his  wish  to  render 
mysticism  as  rational  and  as  attractive  as  possible  ;  and  no 
other  advocate  has  exhibited  it  so  purified  from  extravagance,  or 
secured  for  it  so  general  a  sympathy.  The  principle  of  '  holy 
indifference,'  however,  must  be  weighed,  not   by  the   virtues 


VOL.  II. 


T 


274  Quietism.  "'  [b.  x. 

of  Fenelon,  but  according  to  the  standard  of  Scripture, — and 
such  an  estimate  must,  we  believe,  pronounce  it  mistaken. 

XIV. 

The  attempt  to  make  mysticism  definite  and  intelligible  must 
always  involve  more  or  less  of  inconsistency.    Nevertheless,  the 
enterprise  has  been  repeatedly  undertaken ;  and  it  is  a  remark- 
able fact,  that  such  efforts  have  almost  invariably  originated  in 
France.     Mysticism  and  scholasticism — the  spirit  of  the  cloud 
and  the  spirit  of  the   snow — reign  as  rivals  throughout  the 
stormy  region  of  the  Middle  Age.     The  reaction  against  the 
extreme  of  each  nourished  its  antagonist.     Hugo  and  Richard 
of  St.  Victor  endeavoured  to  effect  a  union,  and  to  reconcile 
these  contending  products  of  the  heart  and  brain.      In  that 
ascetic  abstraction,  which  hides  in  darkness  all  the  objects  of 
sense,  they  sought  to  develop,  from  the  dull  and  arid  stem  of 
school  divinity,  the  most  precious  blossoms  of  the  feeling  ;  and 
their  mysticism  resembles  those  plants  of  the  cactus-tribe  which 
unfold,  from  their  lustreless  and  horny  leaves,  gorgeous  flowers 
that  illumine,  with  phosphoric  radiance,  the  darkness  of  the 
tropical  night.     The  Victorines  were  succeeded  in  the  same 
path  by  Bonaventura,  a  Frenchman  by  education,  if  not  by 
birth,  more  a  schoolman  than  a  mystic ;  and,  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  by  Gerson.     These  are  mystics  who  have  no  tales  to 
tell  of  inspiration  and  of  vision — their  aim  is  to  legitimize  rap- 
ture, to  define  ecstasy,  to  explain  the  higher  phenomena  of  the 
spirit  on  the  basis  of  an  elaborate  psychology,  to  separate  the 
delusive  from  the  real  in  mysticism,  and  to  ascertain  the  laws  of 
that  mystical  experience,  of  which  they  acknowledged  them- 
selves to  be  but  very  partially  the  subjects.     With  this  view 
Gerson  introduces  into  mysticism,  strange  to  say,  the  principle 
of  induction ;  and  proposed,  by  a  collection  and  comparison  of 
recorded  examples,   to  determine  its   theory,  and  decide  its 


I 


2.]  Mysticism  in  Germany  and  in  France.  275 


practice.  In  the  Maxims  of  the  Sainfs,  Fenelon  carries  out  the 
idea  of  Gerson,  as  far  as  was  requisite  for  his  immediate  purpose. 
Both  are  involved  in  the  same  difficulty,  and  fall  into  the  same 
contradiction.  What  Molinos  was  to  Fe'nelon,  Ruysbroek  was 
to  Gerson.  Fenelon  wished  to  stop  short  of  the  spiritualism 
condemned  as  heretical  in  Molinos;  Gerson,  to  avoid  the 
pantheism  he  thought  he  saw  in  Ruysbroek.  Both  impose 
checks,  which,  if  inefficacious,  amount  to  nothing ;  if  effective, 
are  fatal  to  the  very  life  of  mysticism, — both  hold  doctrines,  to 
which  they  dare  not  give  scope  ;  and  both  are,  to  some  extent, 
implicated  in  the  consequences  they  repudiate  by  the  principles 
they  admit. 

Mysticism  in  France  contrasts  strikingly,  in  this  respect,  with 
mysticism  in  Germany.  Speaking  generally,  it  may  be  said 
that  France  exhibits  the  mysticism  of  sentiment,  Germany  the 
mysticism  of  thought.  The  French  love  to  generalize  and  to 
classify.  An  arrangement  which  can  be  expressed  by  a  word, 
a  principle  which  can  be  crystallized  into  a  sparkling  maxim, 
they  will  applaud.  But  with  them  conventionalism  reigns 
paramount — society  is  ever  present  to  the  mind  of  the  individual 
— their  sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  exquisitely  keen.  The  German 
loves  abstractions  for  their  own  sake.  To  secure  popularity  for 
a  visionary  error  in  France,  it  must  be  lucid  and  elegant  as  tiic 
language — it  must  be  at  least  an  ingenious  and  intelligible  false- 
hood; but  in  Germany,  the  most  grotesque  inversions  of 
thought  and  of  expression  will  be  found  no  hindrance  to  its 
acceptability,  and  the  most  hopeless  obscurity  may  be  pro- 
nounced its  highest  merit.  In  this  respect,  German  philosophy 
sometimes  resembles  Lycophron,  who  was  so  convinced  that 
unintelligibility  was  grandeur,  as  to  swear  he  would  hang  him- 
self if  a  man  were  found  capable  of  understanding  his  play  of 
Cassandra.  Almost  every  later  German  mystic  has  been  a 
secluded  student — almost  every  mystic  of  modern  France  has 


27^  Quietism. 


[l5.    X. 


been  a  brilliant  conversationalist.  The  genius  of  mysticism 
rises,  in  Germany,  in  the  clouds  of  the  solitary  pipe ;  in  France, 
it  is  a  fashionable  Ariel,  who  hovers  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  hangs  to  the  pendants  of  the  glittering  chandelier.  If 
Jacob  Behmen  had  appeared  in  France,  he  must  have  counted 
disciples  by  units,  where  in  Germany  he  reckoned  them  by 
hundreds.  If  Madame  Guyon  had  been  born  in  Germany, 
rigid  Lutheranism  might  have  given  her  some  annoyance ;  but 
her  earnestness  would  have  redeemed  her  enthusiasm  from 
ridicule,  and  she  would  have  lived  and  died  the  honoured 
precursor  of  modern  German  Pietism.  The  simplicity  and 
strength  of  purpose  which  characterize  so  many  of  the  German 
mystics,  appear  to  much  advantage  beside  the  vanity  and 
affectation  which  have  so  ftequently  attended  the  manifesta- 
tions of  mysticism  in  France.  In  Germany,  theosophy  arose 
with  the  Reformation,  and  was  as  much  a  theology  as  a  science. 
In  France,  where  the  Reformation  had  been  suppressed,  and 
where  superstition  had  been  ridiculed  with  such  success,  the 
same  love  of  the  marvellous  was  most  powerful  with  the  most 
irreligious— it  filled  the  antechamber  of  Cagliostro  with  im- 
patient dandies  and  grandees,  trembling,  and  yet  eager  to  pry 
into  the  future — too  enlightened  to  believe  in  Christ,  yet  too 
credulous  to  doubt  the  powers  of  a  man  before  whose  door 
fashion  drew,  night  after  night,  a  line  of  carriages  which  filled 
the  street. 


Note  to  page  245. 

A  fm/  account  of  the  proceedings  against  the  Quietists  will  be  found  in  the 
narrative  above  referred  to  and  in  Arnold's  Kirchen-und-Ketzer  Geschichtc,  th. 
IIT.  cap.  xvii. 

The  motive  of  P^re  La  Chaise  in  urging  this  prosecution  appears  to  have 
been  twofold  :  partly,  to  start  heretics  whom  his  Most  Christian  Majesty  nii<:'ht 
magnificently  hunt,  and  still  more  to  weaken  the  Spanish  party  and  embarrass 
the  Pope,  who  was  suspected  of  leaning  toward  the  house  of  Austria.  The 
audacity  of  the  Jesuits— so  formidable  always,  from  their  numbers,  their  union, 
their  unscrupulousness,  and  now  emboldened  by  support  so  powerful,  struck  all 


c.  2.]  Persecution  at  Rome.  ij"] 

Rome  with  terror.  A  man  widely  reputed  for  sanctity,  throu^liout  a  period  of 
twenty  years — an  honoured  guest  witiiin  the  walls  of  the  X'atican — who  had 
long  enjoyed,  and  not  yet  forfeited,  the  warm  friendship  of  the  Head  of  the 
Church — was  suddenly  declared  the  most  dangerous  enemy  to  the  faith  of 
Christendom.  To  accomplish  the  ruin  of  this  victim,  a  venerable  pontiff  was 
threatened  with  the  most  grievous  insult  which  infallibility  could  suffer.  W'itliin 
a  month,  two  hundred  persons  were  thrown  into  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion,— and  many  of  these  were  eminent  for  rank,  for  learning,  or  for  piety.  Only 
the  grossly  stupid  or  the  scandalously  dissolute  could  feel  themselves  secure.  To 
hint  a  question  concerning  the  justice  of  a  single  step  in  prosecutions  remark- 
able, even  at  Rome,  for  the  baseness  and  illegality  of  their  agents  and  their  acts 
— to  live  a  quiet  and  retiring  life— to  appear  infrequently  at  confession  or  at 
mass, — these  were  circumstances  sufficient  to  render  any  man  suspected  of 
Quietism  ;  and  if  the  informer  were  hungry,  or  a  private  enemy  alert,  from  sus- 
picion to  conviction  was  but  a  step. 

But  the  persecutors  were  destined  to  meet  with  many  mortifications  in  their 
course.  Molinos  and  his  friend  Petrucci — a  bishop,  and  afterwards  a  cardinal 
— defended  themselves,  on  their  first  sunnnons,  with  such  skill  and  intrepidity, 
that  the  writings  which  had  been  circulated  against  them  were  condemned  as 
libellous.  The  case  of  Petrucci  represents  that  of  the  great  majority  against 
whom  the  charge  of  Quietism  was  brought.  Not  an  accusation  could  be  sub- 
'stantiated,  save  this, — that  blameless  as^his  life  might  be,  he  had  grown  reniiss 
in  some  of  those  outward  observances  which  are  the  pride  of  Pharisaic 
sanctity.  Thus  defeated  at  the  outset,  the  Jesuits  were  reinforced  and  rendered 
victorious  by  the  falsehoods  of  D'Etrees,  who  refused  to  hear  a  word  Molinos 
had  to  say  in  defence  of  his  own  writings.  The  Count  and  Countess  Vespi- 
niani  were  arrested,  with  other  persons,  to  the  number  of  seventy.  They  were 
accused  of  omitting  thee.xterior  practices  of  religion,  and  of  giving  themselves 
to  solitude  and  prayer.  The  Countess  bravely  answered,  that  she  had  dis- 
covered her  manner  of  devotion  only  to  her  confessor  ;  he  must  have  betrayed 
her;  who  but  idiots  would  confess,  if  confession  was  made  the  engine  of  the 
persecutor — if  no  secret  was  sacred — if  to  confess  might  be  to  lie  ai  the  mercy 
of  a  villain?  Henceforward  she  would  confess  to  God  alone.  A  rank  so  high 
must  be  respected.  Words  so  bold  were  dangerous.  So  the  Vespiniani  were 
set  free.  The  circular  letter  sent  out  against  the  Quietists  was  treated  with 
indifference  by  most  of  the  Itahan  bishops— not  unleavened,  many  of  them,  by 
this  obno.xious  kind  of  piety.  Nay,  worse  I  for  once,  an  epistle  from  the 
Inquisition  was  published.  The  unfortunate  letter  escaped  somehow— was 
translated  into  Italian— all  Rome  was  reading  it.  The  world  looked  in  on  the 
procedure  of  the  Holy  Office,  lo  the  shame  and  bitter  vexation  of  its  holy  men. 
It  was  said  that  the  Inquisition  collected  some  twenty  thousand  letters,  or  copies 
of  letters,  sent  and  received  by  Molinos,  and  that  when  he  was  arrested,  twent) 
crowns'  worth  of  letters  addressed  to  him  were  seized  at  the  post-office.  So 
extended  was  the  influence  of  the  heretic— so  little  likely,  therefore,  to  perish 
with  him.  Some  ecclesiastics  had  the  candour  to  admit  that  most  of  the 
Quietists  showed  themselves  better  instructed  than  their  accusers,  and  confronted 
their  judges  so  ably,  with  passages,  authorities,  and  arguments,  that  they  could 
only  be  silenced  by  authority  and  force. 

The  letter  of  Cardinal  Caraccioli  to  Innocent,  about  the  Quietists,  represents 
them  as  persons  who  attempt  passive  mental  prayer  and  '  contemplatio,'  with- 
out the  previous  preparation  of  the  '  via  purgativa.'  Dreadful  to  relate,  soma 
of  them  had  been  known  to  leave  their  rosaries  unfingered,  to  refuse  to  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  to  declare  crucifixes  nther  in  their  way  thm  othrrwise! 
Tliey "trusted  rather  to  their  inward  attraction  than  to  directors.    Some,  t  lough 


27^  Quietisnt.  [b.  x. 

laymen,  and  though  married,  communed  daily — an  ominous  sign — for  it 
betokened  the  lowering  (in  their  minds,  at  least)  of  that  high  partition  wall, 
which  Rome  had  made  so  strong,  between  clergy  and  laity — between  the  reli- 
gious par  excellence  and  the  vulgar  herd  of  Christians,  who  were  to  be  saved 
only  through  the  former.  See  Bausset's  Histoire  de  F^uelon,  liv.  ii.  ;  Piices 
Juslijicatives,  No.-  ii. 

Note  to  page  259. 

F^n^lon  could  with  ease  bring  from  the  arsenal  of  tradition  even  more  proofs 
than  he  needed  for  the  establishment  of  his  doctrine.  No  prevarication  or 
sophistry  could  conceal  the  fact  that  Bernard,  Albertus  Magnus,  Francis  de 
Sales,  Theresa,  Catharine  of  Genoa,  and  other  saints,  had  used  language  con- 
cerning pure  love,  authenticating  more  than  all  that  F(5n^lon  was  solicitous  to 
defend.  Thus  much  was  proven, — even  subtracting  those  passages  which 
Fiinclon  unwittingly  cited  from  an  edition  of  De  Sales'  Entretiens,  said  to  be 
full  of  interpolations.  The  spiritual  history  of  Friar  Laurent  and  of  Francis  de 
Sales  furnished  actual  examples  of  the  most  extreme  case  F6n61on  was  willing 
to  put.  Bossuet's  true  answer  was  the  reply  he  gave  on  the  cjuestion  tolVIadame 
de  la  Maisonfort,— such  rare  and  extraordinary  cases  should  be  left  out  of  our 
consideration,  they  should  not  be  drawn  within  the  range  of  possible  experience, 
even  for  Christians  considerably  advanced.  {Phelipeauv,  liv.  i.  pp.  165-176.) 
In  dispute  with  F(5n^lon,  instead  of  admitting  the  fact,  as  with  La  Maisonfort, 
the  polemic  gets  uppermost,  and  he  tries  very  dishonestly  to  explain  away  the 
language  of  De  Sales,  while  he  misrepresents  and  garbles  that  of  Fen^lon. 
See  Cinqiiibne  Leitre  en  Rdponse  a  divers  Ecriis ;  Pretniae  Leltre  en  Rip07ise 
a  celle  de  M.  L' Eveque  de  Meaux ;  Maximes  des  Saints,  art.  v. 

F^n^lon  draws  a  subtile  distinction  between  the  object  of  love  and  the  motive 
of  love.  That  love  in  God  which  renders  him  our  eternal  blessedness,  is  among 
the  objects  of  our  love — for  God  has  so  revealed  himself,  but  is  not  the  viotive 
of  it.  [Max.  des  Saints,  art.  iv.)  Do  we  desire  happiness  less,  he  asks,  because 
we  desire  it  from  a  worthy  motive, — i.e.,  as  desired  by  God  ?  Do  we  extinguish 
hope  by  exalting  and  regulating  it?  [Entretietis  sur  la  Religion;  CEuvres, 
tom.  i.  p.  35.)  If  any  one  of  us  knew  that  he  should  be  annihilated  at  death, 
ought  he  less  to  love  the  infinitely  Good  ?  Is  not  eternal  life  a  gift  which  God 
is  free  to  grant  or  to  withhold?  Sliall  the  love  of  the  Christian  who  is  to  have 
eternal  life  be  less  than  that  of  him  who  anticipates  annihilation,  just  because 
the  love  of  God  to  him  is  so  much  more  ?  Shall  such  a  gift  serve  only  to  make 
love  interested?  {Sur  le  Pur  Amour,  xix.  Compare  aX%o  Max.  des  Saints, 
art.  10,  II,  12  ;  Corresponda?ice,  let.  43.) 

F^n^lon  is  very  careful  to  state  that  disinterested  love  is  put  to  its  most  painful 
proof  only  in  rare  and  extreme  cases, — that  the  love  which  is  interested  is  not  a 
sin,  only  a  lower  religious  stage,  and  that  he  who  requires  that  staff  is  to 
beware  how  he  throws  it  aside  prematurely,  ambitious  of  a  spiritual  perfection 
which  may  be  beyond  his  reach.  Bossuet  endeavoured  to  show  that  if  F^n6- 
lon's  doctrine  were  true,  any  love  except  the  disinterested  was  a  crime. 
(Instructions  et  Avis,  &c.,  xx. ;  Sur  le  Pur  Amour,  p.  329;  Max.  des  Saints, 
art.  iii.,  and  sundry  qualifications  of  importance,  concerning  self-abandonment 
in  the  '  ^preuves  extremes,'  art.  ix.) 

Note  to  page  259. 

Such  is  the  explanation  in  the  letter  to  I-a  Maisonfort,  But  Fenelon  is  not 
always — perhaps,  could  not  possibly  be — quite  consistent  with  himself  on  this 
most  delicate  of  questions.     Beyond  a  doubt,  the  attempt  practically  to  apply 


0.  2.1  Self-abandonment.  279 


this  doctrine  concerning  reflex  acts  constitutes  the  morbid  element  in  his  system 

is  the  one  refinement  above  all  others  fatally  unnatural.     There  is  great  truth 

in  F^n^lon's  warnings  against  nervous,  impatient  introspection.  Against  an 
evil  so  prevalent,  and  so  constantly  fostered  by  the  confessional  and  the  direc- 
tors, it  was  higli  time  that  some  one  should  protest.  But,  alas  1  not  only  does 
Fenc-lon  himself  uphold,  most  zealously,  that  very  directorship,  but  this  strain 
after  a  love  perfectly  disinterested  tempts  the  aspirant  to  be  continually  hunting 
inwardly  after  traces  of  the  hated  self,  which  will  never  quite  vanish.  Happy, 
according  to  F^ndlon,  is  that  religionist  who  can  sacrifice,  not  only  himself,  but 
the  sacrifice  of  himself— who  burns  the  burnt  offering— who  gives  up  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  given  himself  up— and  who  has  reached,  without  knowing 
it,  the  pinnacle  of  Christian  perfection.  The  reader  will  find  specimens  of  his 
more  guarded  language  in  the  letter  referred  to  in  the  Iiistnictions  ct  Avis,  Sec. 
XX. ;  A/ax.  dcs  S,u//^s,  art.  xiii. ;  Leitrcs  Spirit itellcs,  xiii.  This  last,  a  letter  to 
Soeur  Charlotte  de  St.  Cyprien,  is  of  importance,  as  containing  definitions  of 
mystical  terms,  similar  in  s'ubstance  to  those  given  in  the  Maximes,  and  more- 
over, highly  approved  by  Bossuet,  a  year  after  the  conferences  at  Issy.  I'he 
strongest  expressions  are  found  in  the  Instructions  et  Avis,  xxii.  xxiii.  He 
says, — Pour  consonuner  le  sacrifice  de  purification  en  nous  des  dons  de  Dieu,  il 
faiit  done  achever  de  detruire  I'holocauste  ;  il  faut  tout  perdre,  meme  I'abandoii 
aper9u  par  lequel  on  se  voit  livr^  a  sa  perte. — P.  342.  Compare  the  allusion  to 
the  unconscious  prayer  of  St.  Anthony,  Max.  des  Saints,  art.  xxi. 

Note  to  page  259. 

L'activit6  que  les  mystiques  blament  n'est  pas  Taction  r^elM  et  la  co-opdration 
de  I'ame  ^  la  grace  ;  c'est  seulement  une  crainte  inquiete,  ou  une  fervcur  em- 
press6e  qui  recherche  les  dons  de  Dieu  pour  sa  propre  consolation.— ZLfZ/rw 
Spiritiulles,  xiii.  So  also,  in  the  letter  to  La  Maisonfort,  he  shows  that  the 
state  of  passivity  does  not  preclude  a  great  number  of  distinct  acts.  This  is 
what  the  mystics  call  co-operating  with  God  without  activity  of  our  own— a 
subtlety  which  those  may  seek  to  understand  who  care.  F^ni^lon  means  to 
forbid  a  selfish  isolation,  which,  on  pretence  of  quietude,  neglects  daily  duty. 
True  repose  in  God  calmly  discharges  such  obligations  as  they  come.  We 
have  seen  an  example  of  this  in  St.  Theresa.  Feni§lon  is  not  prepared  to  go 
the  length  of  John  of  the  Cross,  who  denies  our  co-operation  altogether. — 
Maximes  des  Saints,  art.  xxx.  and  xxix.  lis  ne  font  plus  d'actes  empresses  et 
marques  par  une  secousse  inquiete  :  ils  font  des  actes  si  paisibles  et  si  uniformes, 
que  ces  actes,  quoique  tres-r6els,  tres-successifs,  et  meme  interrompus,  leur  par- 
aisscnt  ou  un  seul  acte  sans  interruption,  ou  un  repos  continuel. 

Fenelon  is  at  any  time  ready  to  endorse  all  the  counsels  of  John  of  the  Cross, 
as  to  the  duty  of  leaving  behind  [outre-passer)  all  apparitions,  sounds,  tastes, 
everything  visionary,  sensuous,  or  theurgic.  With  the  grosser  forms  of  mysticism 
he  has  no  sympathy.  He  even  endeavours  to  represent  St.  Theresa  as  an  advo- 
cate of  the  purer  and  more  refined  mysticism,  adducing  the  scarce-attainable 
seventh  Morada,  and  overlooking  the  sensuous  character  of  the  preceding  six. 
Theresa  might,  in  the  abstract,  rate  the  visionless  altitude  above  the  valley  of 
vision  ;  but  she  preferred,  for  herself,  unquestionably,  the  valley  to  the  moun- 
tain {Max.  des  Saints,  xix.  ;  Lcttres  Spirituclles,  xiv.  xvi.  xvii.)  In  a  letter  on 
extraordinary  gifts,  he  repeats  the  precept  of  John— '  AUer  toujours  par  le  non- 
voir  ;'  and  '  outre-passer  les  grands  dons,  et  marcher  dans  la  pure  foi  conunc  si 
on  ne  les  avait  pas  re9us.'  He  consigns  the  soul,  in  like  manner,  to  a  blank 
abstraction— to  what  Luther  would  have  called  '  a  void  tedium. '  Tout  ce  qui  est 
gout'et  ferveur  sensible,  ima^e  cree,  lumiere  disliacte  et  aperfue,  donne  une 


2 So  Quietism,  [p.  X. 

fausse  confiance,  et  fait  une  impression  trop  vive  ;  on  les  re^oit  avec  joie,  et  on 
les  quitte  avec  peine.  Au  contraire,  dans  la  nudite  de  la  pure  foi,  on  ne  doit 
nen  voir  ;  on  n'a  plus  en  soi  ni  pensde  ni  volonte  ;  on  trouve  tout  dans  cette 
simphcite  j;enerale,  sans  s'arreter  a  rien  de  distinct ;  on  ne  possede  rien,  mais  on 
est  possede.— yLf///-^  xxiii.  The  very  acts  of  which  Contemplation  is  made  up  are 
says  Fenelou— '  Si  simples,  si  directs,  si  paisibles,  si  uniformes,  qu'ils  n'ont  ricii 
de  marque  par  oil  lame  puisse  les  distinguer.'— J/,z.r.  dcs  Saints,  art.  xxi. 
What  such  acts  can  be,  must  remain  for  ever  a  mystery  unfathomable.'  It  is' for 
these  inexpiicnble  '  actes  distinds  that  the  convenient  'facilite  spdciale  is  pro- 
vided.    {Correspondaiice,  lettre  43  ;  comp.  Leitres  Spirituclles,  xiii.  448  ) 

Fen(^lon  is  also  careful  to  guard  his  mysticism  against  the  pretences  of  special 
revelation  and  any  troublesome  insubordination  on  the  part  of  the  'inner  li-rht  ' 
or  lattrait  interieur.  The  said  '  attrait,'  he  justly  observes,  '  n'est  point  une  in- 
spiration inu-aculeuse  et  prophdtique,  qui  rende  1  ame  infaillible,  ni  impeccable 
ni  independanf,  de  la  direction  des  pasteurs  ;  ce  n'est  que  la  grace,  qui  est  sans 
cesse  prcivenante  dans  tous  les  justes,  et  qui  est  plus  sp&iale  dans  les  ames 
(^levees  par  I'amour  d^sinteress^,'  &c.— Zoc.  c/^.  p.  450  ;  Max.  des  Saints  art 
xxix.  and  vii. 

Note  to  pagf,  262, 

Fdn^lon  gives  his  reasons  for  refusing  to  affix  his  approval  to  Bossuet's  book 
in  letters  to  Tronson  and  .Madame  de  Maintenon,  and  in  tlie  RHonse  [Corre- 
spondance.  lettres  52,  53,  57  ;  Rdponse  a  la  Relation,  chap,  v.)  It  was  a  strono- 
point  for  I-enelon  against  LossuM  that  the  latter  had  administered  to  Madame 
Guyon  the  sacraments,  and  granted  her  a  favourable  certificate  after  reading  the 
very  books  in  which  he  professed  afterwards  to  discover  the  most  flao-ilious 
designs.  In  thinking  better,  therefore,  of  her  intentions  than  of  her  lan^uacre 
Fendlon  was  no  more  her  partisan  or  defender  than  Bossuet  himself  had  been' 
up  to  that  point.  The  ,act  of  submission  Rossuet  made  her  si^-n  was  not  a 
retractation  of  error,  but  simply  a  declaration  that  she  had  never  held  any  of  the 
errors  condemned  in  the  pastoral  letter —that  she  always  meant  to  write  in  a 
sense  altogether  orthodox,  and  had  no  conception  that  anv  dangerous  interpre- 
tation could  be  put  upon  the  terms  which,  in  her  ignorance,  she  had  employed 
[Rcpoiise  a  la  Relation,  chap,  i.)  Phelipeaux  sees  in  everything  F^n^lon  wrote 
—the  notes  for  the  iMaxims~-i\\(t  memoranda  he  sent  to  liossuet,  onlv  one  pur- 
pose—an insane  resolve  to  defend  Madame  Guvon  at  all  costs.  He  chooses  to 
imagine  that  every  step  taken  by  her  was  secretly  dictated  by  Y^x\€\ox\  In  fact 
however,  from  the  time  the  l^rst  suspicions  arose,  Fenelon  began  to  withdravv 
from  Madame  Guyon  his  former  intimacy.  Nothing  could  exceed  his  caution 
in  the  avoidance  of  all  implication  with  one  whose  language  was  susceptible  of 
such  fatal  misconstruction.  He  could  probably  have  taken  no  better  course 
He  endeavoured  to  retain  the  controversy  about  the  real  question,  that  she  mirrht 
be  forgotten.  But  it  soon  became  evident  that  he  himself  was  the  party  attacked 
and  with  a  virulence  for  which  the  scandals  attributed  to  Madame  Guyon  fur- 
nished an  instrument  too  tempting  to  be  neglected.  The  charges  against 
Madame  Guyon  increased  in  magnitude— not  with  her  resistance,  for  she  made 
none— but  with  that  of  Fenelon.     [Reponse,  xxiii.  Ixxxiv.  Ix.) 

Note  to  page  264. 

The  motives  with  which  Fen61on  wrote  and  published  the  Maxims  are  fullv 
stated  by  himself.  It  was  not  to  defend  Madame  Guyon,  but  to  rescue  the 
doctrine  of  pure  love,  threatened  with  destruction  by  the  growino-  prejudice 
against  the  religion  of  the  '  inward  way.'     It  was  not  to  excuse  the  Quietists 


e.  s.]  The  False  and  the  True.  28 1 

but  to  preserve,  by  due  distinctions,  souls  attached  to  tlie  true  mysticism,  from 
the  iUusions  of  the  false.  It  was  to  give  their  full  and  legitimate  scope  to  those 
venerable  principles  which  a  heretical  Quietism  was  said  to  have  abused. 
Mysticism  was  not  to  be  e.xlinguished  by  denying  the  truth  it  contained.  Let, 
then,  the  true  be  separated  from  the  false.  The  Maxims  were  beHevcd  by 
F^n^Ion  to  contain  no  position  contrary  to  the  articles  of  Issy.  The  passages 
which  cannot  be  reconciled  with  the  limitations  imposed  by  those  articles  are  not 
his  own,  but  quotations  from  De  Sales  and  others.  The  Andalusian  IJluniinati 
had  rendered  the  greatest  saints  suspected.  Theresa,  Alvarez,  John  of  the  Cross, 
stood  in  need  of  defenders.  Ruysbroek,  whom  Bellarniine  called  the  great  con- 
templatist  ;  Tauler,  the  Apostle  of  Germany,  had  required  and  had  found 
champions,  the  one  in  Dionysius  the  Carthusian,  the  otiier  in  Blosius.  'J'iie 
Cardinal  Berulle  felt  compelled  to  enter  the  lists  on  behalf  of  St.  Francis  dc 
Sales,  for  suspicions  had  been  cast  upon  the  wisdom  of  that  eminent  saint. 
Such  examples  might  well  alarm  all  those  whose  religion  was  embued  with 
mysticism, — all  those  to  whom  a  faith  of  that  type  was  a  necessity.  Let  it  he 
openly  declared  where  the  path  of  safety  lies,  and  where  the  dangers  commence. 
The  Maxims  were  to  furnish  a  via  media  between  the  extreme  of  those  who 
repudiated  mystical  theology  altogether,  and  the  excesses  of  the  false  mvstics. 
The  doctrines  stigmatized  as  false  throughout  the  Maxims,  are  what  Fenelon 
supposed  to  be  tiie  tenets  of  Molinos,  judging  from  the  sixty-eight  propositions 
condemned  at  Rome.  The  Faux,  therefore,  which  opposes  to  the  Vrai  is,  for 
the  most  part,  a  mere  chimera — made  up  of  doctrines  really  believed  by  scarcely 
any  one, — only  taught,  perhaps,  now  and  then,  by  designing  priests  to  women, 
for  the  purposes  of  seduction.  See  the  '  Avertissement'  to  Xhfi  Maxims  ;  Pre- 
miere Lettre  en  Rt'ponsc,  &c.  p.  in  ;  Corrcspoiidancc,  lettre  59  ;  and  the  letter 
on  the  Maxims,  to  the  Pope,  Fhelipeaux,  p.  239. 

Note  to  page  26^. 

Among  the  expelled  was  the  brilliant,  unmanageable  Madame  de  la  Maison- 
fort — the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  have  been  shut  up  in  the  small  monotony  of 
St.  Cyr.  The  history  of  mysticism  at  St.  Cyr  is  a  miniature  of  its  history  at  large. 
The  question  by  which  it  is  tried  is  simply  practical.  Will  it  subordinate  itself? 
If  so,  let  it  flourish.  If  not,  root  it  out.  Jean  d'Avila,  in  liis  Audi,  Filia,  ei 
I'idc,  has  a  section  entitled  Des  Fansscs  R^vilatious.  The  whole  question 
turns  on  this  point.  Is  the  visionary  obedient  to  director,  superior,  &c.  ?  If  so, 
the  visions  are  of  God.  If  not,  the  visions  are  of  the  Devil.  [Q£uvres  du  B. 
Jcar.  D'Avila,  Audi,  Filia,   ef  Vide,  ciiapp.  50-55.) 

Madame  Guyon,  in  becoming  a  religious  instructress,  as  she  did,  only  followed 
examples  honoured  by  the  Romish  Church.  Angela  de  Foligni,  the  two 
Catharines  of  Siena  and  of  Genoa,  St.  Theresa,  and  others,  had  become  the 
spiritual  guides  of  numbers,  bolh  men  and  women,  lay  and  ecclesiastic.  At 
another  juncture  the  kind  of  revival  introduced  by  Madame  Guyon  might  have 
met  with  encouragement.  But  her  tendency  was  precisely  that  of  which  the 
times  were  least  tolerant,  and  her  disposition  to  follow  her  inward  attraction 
rather  than  the  counsels  of  prelates  was  magnified  to  proportions  so  portentous 
as  to  exclude  all  hope.  The  mysticism  of  Fenelon,  judged  by  the  test  of  obedi- 
ence, should  certainly  have  been  spared.  With  an  anxiety  almost  nervous,  he 
inculcates  wherever  lie  can,  those  precepts  of  abject  servility  towards  the  director 
which  are  so  agreeable  to  his  Church.  Wherever  the  director  is  in  question,  we 
lose  sight  of  Fenelon,  we  see  only  the  priest.  But  neither  his  own  sincere  pro- 
lessions  of  submission,  nor  his  constant  effort  to  place  every  one  else  under  the 


282  Quietism.  [b.  x. 

feet  of  some  ecclesiastic  or  other,' could  save  him  from  a  condemnation  pro- 
nounced, not  on  religious,  but  political  grounds. 

In  this  respect  F^n^lon  was  anything  but  the  esprit  fort  which  the  scepticism 
of  a  later  age  so  fervently  admired.  His  letters  on  religious  subjects  abound  in 
directions  for  absolute  obedience,  and  in  warnings  against  the  exercise  of  thought 
and  judgment  on  our  own  account.  Though  Madame  de  la  Maisonfort  knew 
herself  utterly  unfit  for  the  religious  vocation  which  Madame  de  Maintenon 
wished  her  to  embrace,  Fendlon  could  tell  her  that  her  repugnance,  her  anguish, 
her  tears,  were  nothing,  opposed  to  the  decision  of  five  courtly  ecclesiastics, 
affirming  that  she  had  the  vocation.  He  writes  to  say.  La  vocation  ne  se  mani- 
feste  pas  moins  par  la  decision  d'autrui  que  par  notre  propre  attrait. — Corre- 
spondaiicc,  lettre  19.  See  also  Ldtres  SpiritucUes,  18,  19,  169.  The  inward 
attraction  presents  some  perplexity.  In  one  instance  it  is  only  another  word  for 
taste  [Ibid.  35),  and  in  another  place  the  attraction  of  grace  is  equivalent  to  an 
act  of  observation  and  judgment  {Ibid.  176).  Here,  with  so  many  mystics, 
F^n^lon  can  only  follow  the  '  moi,'  from  which  he  fancies  he  escapes  (441). 
The  knot  of  these  interior  difficulties  is  cut  by  the  directorship. 

If  F(5n61on  speaks  uncertainly  as  to  what  is  the  inward  attraction,  and  what 
is  not,  much  more  would  the  majority  of  mystics  be  sorely  perplexed  in  their 
own  case.  The  mystics,  bewildered  and  wearied  with  intense  self-scrutiny,  sees 
all  swim  before  his  eyes.  He  can  be  sure  of  nothing.  Whatever  alternative  he 
chooses,  he  has  no  sooner  acted  on  the  choice  than  he  finds  self  in  the  act,  and 
fancies  the  other  road  the  right  one.  He  is  distressed  by  finding  inclination  and 
inward  attraction  changing,  while  he  gazes,  into  each  other,  and  back  again, 
times  without  number.  He  is  afraid  to  do  what  he  likes — this  may  be  self- 
pleasing.  He  is  afraid  to  do  what  he  does  not  like — for  this  may  be  perverseness 
— some  culpable  self-will,  at  least.  The  life  of  a  devotee,  so  conscientious  and 
so  unfortunate,  is  rendered  tolerable  only  by  the  director.  The  man  who  can 
put  an  end  to  this  inward  strife  about  trifles — which  are  anything  but  trifles  to 
the  sufferer — is  welcomed  as  an  angel  from  heaven.  Casuistry,  the  creature  of 
the  confessional,  renders  its  parent  a  necessity.  Fen61on  laments  the  abuses  of 
the  system,  but  he  will  rather  believe  that  miracles  will  be  continually  wrought, 
to  rescue  the  faithful  from  such  mischiefs,  than  question  (as  bolder  mystics,  like 
Harphius  had  done)  the  institution  itself.  Even  the  mistakes  and  bad  passions 
of  superiors  will  be  wrought  into  blessings  for  the  obedient.  {Sur  la  Direction, 
pp.  677,  6781 


CHAPTER  III. 

All  opinions  and  notions,  though  never  so  true,  about  things  spiritual,  may 
be  the  \-cry  matter  of  heresy,  when  they  are  adhered  to  as  tlic  principle  and  end, 
with  obstuiacy  and  acquieseence  ;  and,  on  tlie  contrary,  opinions  and  specula- 
tions, however  false,  may  be  the  subject  of  orthodoxy,  and  very  well  consist  with 
it,  when  they  are  not  stiffly  adhered  to,  but  only  employed  in  the  service  of  dis- 
posing the  soul  to  the  faith  of  entire  resignation,  which  is  the  only  true  ortho- 
doxy wherein  there  can  be  no  heresy  nor  capital  errours. — Poiket. 

'\yt  HLLOUGHBY.  I  think,  Atherton,  you  have  been  some- 
what too  indulgent  on  that  question  of  disinterested 
love.  To  me  it  appears  sheer  presumption  for  any  man  to 
pretend  that  he  loves  God  without  any  regard  to  self,  when  his 
very  being,  Avith  its  power  to  know  and  love,  is  a  gift — when  he 
has  nothing  that  he  did  not  receive, — when  his  salvation  is 
wholly  of  favour,  and  not  of  merit, — and  when,  from  the  very 
first,  he  has  been  laid  under  an  ever-increasing  weight  of  obli- 
gation beyond  all  estimate.  On  this  matter  Oliver  Cromwell 
appears  to  me  a  better  divine  than  Fenelon,  when  he  writes, '  I 
have  received  plentiful  wages  beforehand,  and  I  know  that  I 
shall  never  earn  the  least  mite.' 

GowER.  Yet  Fe'nelon  bases  disinterested  love  on  the 
doctrine  which  denies  to  man  all  possibility  of  merit. 

Atherton.  I  think  Willoughby  looks  at  Fene'lon's  teaching 
concerning  disinterested  love  too  much  apart  from  his  titties 
and  his  Church.  Grant  that  this  disinterestedness  is  a  need- 
less and  unattainable  refinement,  savouring  of  that  high-flown, 
ultra-human  devotion  so  much  affected  by  Romish  saintship — 
still  it  has  its  serviceable  truth,  as  opposed  to  the  servile  and 
mercenary  religionism  which  the  Romanist  system  must 
ordinarily  produce. 


•^^4  Quietism.  r    ^ 

WiLLouGHBY.  It  is  the  less  of  two  evils,  perhaps;  but,^t 
divines  say  what  they  will,  men  cannot  abjure  self  as  such  a 
doctrine  requires.  Man  may  ask  it  of  his  fellow-men,  but  God 
does  not  require  it  of  them,  when  he  tells  them  He  would  have 
all  men  to  be  saved.  That  inalieiiable  desire  of  individual 
well-being,  to  which  God  appeals,  these  theologians  disdain 

GowER.  But  man  comes  into  this  world  to  live  for  some- 
thing higher  than  happiness. 

WILLOUGHBY.  That  depends    on    what  you    mean    by  the 
word.     Of  course,    life   has  a  purpose   far   above    that  snug 
anima  ism  which  some  men  call  happiness.     In  opposition  to 
/.^/,  the  outcry  revived  of  late  against  happiness,  as  a  motive, 
has  Its  full  right.     But  I  mean  by  happiness,  man's  true  well- 
being-thatof  his  higher,  not  his  lower  nature-thatof  his  nature 
not  for  a  moment,  but  for  ever.     With  such  happiness,  duty' 
however  stern,  must  always  ultimately  coincide.    I  say,  man  was 
formed  to  desire  such  a  realisation  of  the  possibilities  of  his 
nature,  that  to  bid  him  cease  or  slacken  in  this  desire  is  a 
cruelty  and  a  folly,  and  that  the  will  of  God  ought  never  for  an 
instant  to  be  conceived  as  hostile  to  such  well-being      If  He 
were,  why  hear  we  of  Redemption?     And   I  may  point  with 
reverence  to  the  Incarnate  Perfectness,  '  who,  >r //..  y.v  M^/ 
was  set  before  him,  endured  the  cross;'  he  would  die  to  know 
the  blessedness  of  restoring  to  us  our  life.     Only  the  most  sub- 
lime self-sacrifice  could  account  such  a  result  a  recompense  :  and 
that  recompense  he  did  not  refuse  to  keep  constantly  in  view 
Atherton.   Your  dispute  is  very  much  a  question  of  words 
True    self-annihilation    certainly    does  not    consist  in    bein- 
without  a  personal  aim,  but  in  suppressing  all  that  within  us 
which  would  degrade  that  aim  below  the  highest. 

GowER.  The  Quietists  are  right  in  undervaluing,  as  they  do 
mere  pleasurable  feeling  in  religion. 

Atherton.  Quite  so  :  in  as°far  as  they  mean  to  say  by  such 


c.  3.]  Disinterested  Love.  285 

depreciation  that  God  may  be  as  truly  near  and  giacioLis  in 
spiritual  sorrow  as  in  spiritual  joy, — that  inward  delights  and 
blissful  states  of  mind  are  not  to  be  put  virtually  in  the  place 
of  Christ,  as  a  ground  of  trust — that  the  witness  of  the  Spirit 
does  not  evince  itself  in  the  emotional  nature  merely,  but  is 
realised  in  the  general  consciousness  of  a  divine  life,  which  is 
its  own  evidence.  But  I  think  the  Quietists  too  much  over- 
look the  fact  that  peace,  rising  at  times  to  solemn  joy,  is  after 
all.  the  7wnnal  state  of  the  Christian  life,  and  as  such,  always  a 
legitimate  object  of  desire. 

GowER.  As  to  disinterested  love,  once  more,  may  we  not 
take  Bunyan  as  a  good  example  of  the  mean  between  our  two 
extremes  ?  When  in  prison,  and  uncertain  whether  he  might 
not  soon  be  condemned  to  die,  the  thought  came  into  his 
mind  ■• —Suppose  God  should  withdraw  Himself  at  the  very 
last  moment — fail  to  support  me  at  the  gallows — abandon  me. 
But  he  resisted  the  temptation  like  a  man.  He  tells  how  he 
said  within  himself,  '  If  God  doth  not  come  in  (to  comfort  me), 
I  will  leap  off  the  ladder  even  blindfold  into  eternity,  sink  or 
swim,  come  heaven,  come  hell.  It  was  my  duty,'  he  declared, 
'  to  stand  to  His  word,  whether  He  would  ever  look  upon  me, 
or  save  me  at  the  last,  or  not.' 

^VlLLOUGHBY.  I  Can  Understand  Bunyan.  He  was  driven 
to  that  self-abandonment,  and  his  faith  made  its  brave  stand 
there  ;  he  did  not  seek  it.  But  the  Quietists  would  have  us 
cultivate,  as  the  habit  of  Christian  perfection,  that  self-oblivion 
which  is,  in  fact,  only  our  resource  in  the  hottest  moment  of 
temptation.  Why  shut  ourselves  up  in  the  castle-keep,  if  not 
an  outwork  has  been  carried  ? 

Atherton.  What  a  torrent  of  cant  and  affectation  must 
have  been  set  a  flowing  when  Quietism  became  the  fashion  for 
awhile  !  What  self-complacent  chatter  about  self-annihilation  ; 
and  how  easily  might    the  detail    of  spiritual   maladies  and 


286  Qtdetism.  [b.  x 

imaginary  sins  be  made  to  minister  to  display  !     Is  it  not  thus 
Pope  describes  Affectation  ? — how  she 

Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride, 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe 
Wrapt  in  a  gown  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 

GowER.  That  reminds  me  of  Zoilus,  pretending  to  be  ill,  that 
he  might  exhibit  to  his  friends  the  new  purple  counterpane  just 
come  from  Alexandria. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But  I  Can  imagine  some,  in  earnest,  seeking 
refuge  in  Quietism — doing  so  rather  in  desperation  than  in  as- 
piration— heart  sick,  weary  of  the  world.  Such  would  find  but 
cold  comfort.  In  vain  would  they  be  surrounded  with  offers  of 
supersensible  manifestations,  divine  touches,  tastes,  illapses — 
ethereal,  super-angelic — not  to  say  superhuman,  fare.  Craving 
some  tangible  consolation,  some  food  adapted  to  their  nature, 
they  would  be  mocked  with  these  pictures  of  a  feast, — with 
promise  of  the  sustenance  proper  only  to  some  other  race  of 
creatures. 

Atherton.  As  though  one  should  feed  a  sick  lion  on  ginger- 
bread and  liqueurs. 

GowER.  Or  one  might  liken  such  poor  disappointed  creatures 
to  the  lamb  brought  into  the  churches  on  St.  Agnes'  day, 
reclined  on  its  cushion  fringed  with  gold,  its  ears  and  tail 
decked  with  gay  ribbon, — bleating  to  church  music — petted  and 
adorned,  in  a  manner  to  it  most  unintelligible  and  unsatisfy- 
ing— and  seeming,  to  the  ear  of  the  satirist,  to  cry  all  the 
while, — 

Alack,  and  alas  ! 
What's  all  this  white  damask  to  daisies  and  grass  ! 

Kate.  Helen  and  I  were  much  interested  in  that  old  book 
you    lent   us,   Mr.   Atherton,    The  Life  of  Mistress  Antotiia 
Bourignon^  an  excellent  woman,  shamefully  persecuted. 
'  See  Note  on  p.  289. 


c.  3.]  Peter  Poiret.  287 

Atherton.  I  think  so.  She  took  upon  herself,  you  see,  to 
rebuke  the  Church  as  well  as  the  world. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  And  had  large  property  left  her,  which 
excited  the  cupidity  of  those  Fathers  of  the  Oratory,  who  gave 
her  such  trouble. 

Gower.  I  never  heard  of  her  before. 

Atherton.  Her  Quietism  was  very  similar  to  that  of 
Madame  Guyon,  but  she  was  not,  like  her,  mixed  up  with  a 
controversy  famous  in  history.  She  found,  however,  a  faithful 
Fenelon  in  her  accomplished  disciple,  Peter  Poiret,^  a  liberal 
and  large-minded  Quietist,  whose  mysticism  may  be  said  to 
occupy  a  position  beween  that  of  the  German  'J'heology  and 
our  English  Platonists. 

WiLLouGHBV.  I  greatly  enjoyed  reading  some  parts  of  his 
Divine  (Economy.  Tennyson's  stanza  expresses  the  spirit  of 
his  theology : — 

Our  little  systems  have  their  dny  ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  Thee, 
And  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

Atherton.  Yet  his  six  volumes  add  one  more  to  our  many 
systems.  The  vitiating  element,  in  a  theology  otherwise  very 
fairly  balanced,  is  the  extreme  to  which  he  carries  the  doctrine 
of  passivity.  In  religion,  he  will  have  the  understanding  utterly 
inert.^ 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  he  uses,  very  effectively,  in  his  writings, 
the  faculty  he  calls  on  us  to  resign. 

Atherton.  It  is  very  common  with  mysticism  to  demand,  in 
that  way,  a  sacrifice  which  it  does  not  make  itself.  With  Poiret, 
Philosophy,  Criticism,  and  Rhetoric,  are  the  curse  of  the  Church 
— the  sources  of  all  false  theology. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Still  there  is  much  truth  in  his  assertion  that 

'  See  Note  on  p.  290.  *  See  Second  Note  on  p.  290. 


28S  Quietism.  [d.  x. 

all  positive  religion  accomplishes  its  purpose  only  as  it  leads  to 
a  filial  subjection  of  the  soul  to  God — as  it  conducts  men,  be- 
yond itself,  to  immediate  intercourse  with  Deity. 

Atherton.  William  Law  has  the  same  idea  :  it  constitutes, 
with  him,  the  natural  basis  of  all  revealed  religion. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  It  is  mainly  on  this  ground,  I  suppose,  that 
Poiret  adopts  an  eschatology  more  mild  than  that  of  the  Cal- 
vinism which  he  forsook.  He  is  not  without  his  hopes  con- 
cerning heathens  hereafter.  He  believes  in  a  state  of  purifica- 
tion after  death,  for  those  who  departed,  in  a  state  of  grace, 
but  not  yet  ripe  for  the  full  enjoyment  of  heaven. 

Atherton.  It  is  significant  that  the  first  step  taken  by 
Protestant  Mysticism,  after  departing  from  Calvinistic,  Lutheran, 
or  Anglican  orthodoxy,  should  always  be  an  endeavour  to 
mitigate  the  gloom  which  hangs  over  the  doctrine  of  the  future 
state. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  I  have  also  been  reading  M.  Eynard's 
Life  of  Madame  de  Kriidener.  She  appears  to  me  an  inferior 
Madame  Guyon — falling  very  short  of  her  predecessor  in  real 
elevation  of  soul  and  power  of  mind,  and  decidedly  more 
credulous. 

Atherton.  She  was  never  chastened  by  trials  so  severe  as 
those  which  befel  Madame  Guyon  or  Antomette  Bourignon.  I 
do  not  think  her  insincere  altogether, — she  meant  well,  and 
often  deceived  herself;  but  she  never  thoroughly  conquered  her 
inordinate  vanity  and  love  of  display.  When  her  novel  of  Valerie 
had  outlived  its  day  of  puffery — when  she  had  ceased  to  shine 
in  the  world  of  fashion,  she  achieved  distinction  as  a  seeress 
and  guide  of  souls  at  the  Hotel  Montchenu. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  A  tuft-hunting  sort  of  Quietism,  hers.  What 
a  picture  Talleyrand  gives  of  the  evening  religious  service  in  her 
drawing-room,  when  the  allies  were  in  Paris.  The  Emperor 
Alexander  was  a  frequent  visitor,  prominent  among  notabilities 


c.  3.J  Madame  de  Kriidener.  2 89 

from  every  court  in  Europe.  M.  Empeytaz,  in  his  gown, 
prayed  and  preached ;  Madame  de  Kriidener,  with  her  blue 
eyes  and  long  dark  'ocks,  would  converse  on  the  interior  life, 
with  guest  after  guest,  in  the  inner  apartment,  or  haply  come 
forward  and  deliver  a  prophecy." 

Atherton.  She  had  all  the  tact  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  an 
impressive  manner,  and  a  fascinating  gift  of  utterance.  Her 
mysticism  received  its  prophetic  impulse  chiefly  from  the  pre- 
dictions of  a  pretended  clairvoyante,  managed  by  a  knave.* 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Jung  Stilling  and  Swedenborg  had  also 
their  share  in  giving  that  bent  to  her  enthusiasm.  I  think  she 
may  have  done  good  in  some  quarters. 

Atherton.  Very  likely.  The  world  is  seldom  the  worse 
for  the  shock  it  receives  when  some  one  speaks  out  a  strong 
belief  in  unseen  realities,  even  though  not  always  in  the  wisest 
way. 

■'  See  Revelations  from  the  Life  of  ^tait  certainement  de  trds  bonne  foi  ; 

Prince  7"iz//o'''i?«^;  and  compare  Ey-  elle  me  parut  etre  aimable,   spirituelle 

nard,    Vie  de  Madame  de  Kriidener,  et  d'une    originalite  tres  piquante." — 

cliap.  xvii.     Madame  de  Genlis  writes  P.  30. 

of  her,    '  M«.  de  Kriidener  disait  les  ^  See  the  whole  story  of  the  pastoi 

choses    les   plus   singulieres    avec  un  Fontaine  and    Maria    Kummerin,  in 

calme  qui  les  rendait  persuasives  ;  elle  Eynard. 


Note  to  page  286. 

An  anonymous  work,  entitled  An  Apology  for  Me.  Antonia  Bourignon  (Lond. 
1699),  contains  an  account  of  her  life.  It  was  not  her  design  to  fourjd  a  sect, 
for  she  taught  that  of  sects  there  were  too  many:  e.xchisive  formulas  and  hostile 
systems  had  corrupted  Christendom,  and  made  it  a  very  Babel.  She  wished  to 
forsake  the  world,  with  a  few  associates,  bound  by  no  vows,  distinguished  by  no 
habit,  working  with  their  hands,  and  giving  themselves  to  prayer  and  meditation. 
She  was  much  resorted  to  by  religious  persons  of  every  communion,  as  a  guide 
to  the  higher  degrees  of  the  Christian  life  She  believed  that  special  light  was 
granted  her  for  the  interpretation  of  Scripture,  and  that  it  was  her  mission  to 
recall  the  Church  from  formalism  and  human  notions  to  spirituality  and  Quietist 
devotion.  She  appears  to  have  been  truly  successful  in  awakening  and  stimu- 
lating religious  aspiration  in  very  many  minds,  till  the  storm  of  persecution, 
raised  by  her  sweeping  censure  of  the  ecclesiastical  world,  drove  her  from  one 
hiding-place  to  another,  throughout  Schleswig  and  Holstein.  She  died,  at  last, 
impoverished  and  deserted,   concealed  in  a  wretched  lodging  at  Amsterdam. 

VOL.  II.  U 


:?90  Quietism.  [n.  x. 

Her  letters  are  those  of  a  pious  and  sensible  woman,  clear-headed,  precise,  and 
decided  in  vexatious  business  details,  and  singularly  free  from  all  obscureness  or 
rhapsody.  Swammerdam,  the  naturalist,  was  one  of  her  disciples.  HerQuietism 
was  a  welcome  doctrine  to  many  among  Romanists,  Lutherans,  and  Calvinists. 
Her  bitterest  persecutors  were  found  among  the  clergy  of  every  denomination. 
The  Jesuits  of  Frederickstadt  wished  for  fuel  to  burn  her.  The  priests  of  the 
Oratory  at  Mechlin  defrauded  her  of  her  property.  Lutheran  and  Calvinist 
pastors  alike,  wrote,  spoke,  and  preached  against  her  witii  such  virulence  that 
the  zealous  populace  of  Flensburg  were  ready  to  tear  her  in  pieces  for  the  glory 
of  God.  (Life,  pp.  310-313. Comp.  Letters  xxii.  xxiii.  xxiv.  :  A  Collection  of 
Letters  written  by  Mrs.  A.  Bonrigiion,  Lond.  1708.) 

Note  to  page  287. 

Porret  was  a  Calvinistic  clergyman,  who,  after  his  acquaintance  with  Antoinette 
Bourignon,  and  much  reading  of  mystical  writers,  relinquished  his  office.  In 
his  retirement  he  wrote  a  number  of  theological  works,  cf  which  the  best  known 
is  his  system  of  divinity,  entitled  The  Divine  CEconomy.  He  possessed  a  goodly 
measure  of  that  sciiolarship  and  philosophic  culture  which,  as  a  mystic,  he  at 
jmce  uses  and  depreciates. 

Our  higher  faculty — the  understanding,  or  intellect,  he  calls  it — is 'not  (like 
what  he  terms  '  reason')  a  limited  capability  ;  but  '  being  made  for  God  is  in  a 
manner  iniinite,  so  as  to  be  able  to  exert  infinite  acts,  that  is,  to  raise  itself  up 
to  the  contemplation  of  God  as  incomprehensible,  infinite,  and  above  all  parti- 
cular forms  of  conceiving  him."  If,  therefore,  we  make  an  absolute  surrender  of 
this  faculty  to  God,  and  so,  by  a  passive  'implicit  faith,"  yield  ourselves  up  to 
whatsoever  He  may  be  pleased  to  communicate  to  us,  we  receive  Him  '  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  Him,  above  all  particular  and  bounded  conception,  light,  and 
sentiment.'  Tiien,  he  says,  we  practically  own  this  fundamental  truth,  'that 
God  is  infinite  and  incomprehensible  ;  that  he  is  a  Light,  a  Good,  a  Wisdom,  a 
Power,  a  Justice, — in  a  word,  a  Being  above  all  comprehension  and  thought." 
He  bids  us  remember  that  our  apprehensions  of  God,  however  true,  as  derived 
from  his  own  word  and  from  particular  communications  of  his  own,  are  neces- 
sarily partial  and  imperfect,  so  that  'a  true  and  pure  faith,  while  embracing  the 
particular  divine  lights,  will  not  regard  chiefly  the  particular  forms,  but  the 
infinite  God  that  is  annexed  to  them,  and  comprehends  in  himself  infinitely 
more  than  the  particulars  he  has  disclosed  to  us."    [Div.  CEcon.  vol.  v.  chap.  iv. 

§§  37-41  •) 

\Vhat  is  true  in  this  doctrine  has  seldom  been  denied — viz.  that  beyond  our 
highest  apprehension  of  God,  his  nature  extends  infinitely.  We  know  but  parts 
of  his  ways.  We  know  that  infinity  lies  behind  all  our  '  bounded  conceptions  ;' 
but  what  that  infinity  is,  no  surrender  of  the  Intellect  can  disclose  to  us. 

Note  to  page  287. 

Here  Poiret  shall  speak  for  himself : — 

'The  Understanding,  to  pass  into  the  order  of  faith,  must  have  these  two 
conditions  ;  the  first,  that  it  be  empty,  and  shut  to  all  ideas  of  worldly  things, 
both  heavenly  and  earthly  ;  the  second,  that  it  keep  itself  open  before  God  after 
an  indeterminate  and  general  manner,  not  particularly  fixing  upon  anything. 
This  being  supposed,  with  the  faith  of  desire  afore-mentioned,  God  causes  to 
rise  in  the  soul  his  divine  light,  which  is  his  eternal  substantial  word,  whicli  does 
himself  modify  (if  I  may  so  say),  or  rather  fills  and  quickens  the  understanding 
of  the  soul,  and  enlightens  it  as  he  pleases.' — Div.  Qicoii.  p.  93. 


r.  3l  Poiret  speaks  for  himself .  291 

'  It  will  be  objected,  it  may  be,  to  what  has  been  said,  that  this  Rocond 
condition  required  here  of  the  intellect  that  means  to  be  enlightened  by  Faith,  is 
a  state  of  idleness— time  lost  ;  and  that  it  is  an  absurd  thing  not  to  make  use  of 
the  understanding  and  faculties  God  has  given  us,  nor  so  mucli  as  endeavour 
to  excite  in  our  minds  good  and  bright  thoughts.  Here  are  several  things  tacked 
together,  and  most  of  them  beside  the  purpose.  For  at  present  I  am  not  treating 
of  the  means  by  which  one  may  be  introduced,  or  rather  brought,  as  it  were,  to 
the  threshold  of  faith,  as  I  may  say  ;  nor  of  that  imperfect  and  beginning  faith, 
by  me  styled  active.  Nor  yet  do  I  say,  that  when  one  has  been  enlightened  by 
the  light  of  God,  one  is  not  to  fix  one's  mind  to  the  consideration  of  the  lights 
held  out  by  God  :  but  what  I  say  is  this  :  I  suppose  a  man  has  already  had  some 
glimpse  of  the  divine  light  by  the  call  of  preventing  grace,  and  that  he  has  ac- 
tively co-operated  with  it,  by  turning  his  understanding  towards  it,  witli  particu- 
lar desires  of  such  and  such  lights  ;  and,  moreover,  that,  to  confirm  himself 
therein,  he  has  deduced  in  his  reason  and  his  other  inferior  faculties,  notions, 
ratiocinations,  images,  and  words,  and  other  particular  exercises  wherein  he  has 
been  exercised  long  enough  to  be  capable  of  ascending  to  the  state  of  pure  and 
altogether  divine  faith.  Upon  this  supposition,  the  question  is,  whether  one 
whose  faith  has  as  yet  been  but  weak,  and  the  small  light  he  has  had  clouded 
and  mixed  with  great  darkness,  prejudices,  and  errors,  designing  to  clear  the 
principles  of  the  light  he  has  from  the  aforesaid  mixture,  and  desiring  to  see  this 
divine  light  in  its  purity  and  more  fully, — whether,  I  say,  to  this  end  he  ought 
to  apply  thereto  the  activity  of  his  understanding,  of  his  meditations,  reflections, 
and  reasonings  ;  or  else,  whether,  all  this  apart,  he  ought  to  offer  his  under- 
standing in  vacuity  and  silence  to  the  Son  of  God,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and 
ihe  true  Light  of  Souls?  And  this  last  is  what  we  affirm,  and  against  which  the 
objections  alleged  are  of  no  force.' — P.  loo. 

'  Thus  have  I  shown  what  God  requires  of  the  intellect  in  matters  of  faith — 
viz.  a  fund  of  mind  wherein  neither  reason  nor  imagination  do  at  all  act,  but 
where  God  only  may  be,  and  act  brightly  as  He  pleases,  the  soul  meanwhile  not 
adhering  to  the  particular  manners  of  God's  acting,  but  merely  because  it  is  God 
acting,  and  God  infinite  and  incomprehensible,  who  can  dispose  of  His  infinite 
ways  above  our  understanding.' — P.  104. 

Antoinette  Bourignon  found  in  Poiret  a  learned  and  philosophical  disciple. 
He  was  to  her,  in  some  respects,  what  Robert  Barclay  was  to  George  Fox.  But 
her  writings  appear  also  to  have  awakened  a  response,  of  a  more  practical  kind, 
in  many  devout  minds  of  whom  the  world  knew  notliing.  Throughout  Germany 
and  Holland,  France  and  Switzerland,  and  in  England  also,  were  scattered  little 
groups  of  friends  who  nourished  a  hidden  devotion  by  the  study  of  pietist  or 
mystical  writers.  Arndt  and  Spener,  Bourignon  and  Guyon,  Labadie  and  Vvon, 
Thomas  i  Kempis,  De  Sales,  or  translations  from  the  .Spanish  mystics, 
furnished  the  oil  for  their  inward  flame.  Some  withdrew  altogether  from  the 
more  active  duties  of  life  ;  others  were  separatists  from  the  religion  established 
aroimd  them.  In  some  cases  they  held  meetings  for  worship  among  themselves  ; 
in  others,  the  struggles  of  a  soul  towards  the  higher  life  were  only  revealed  toono 
or  two  chosen  intimates.  Whenever  we  can  penetrate  behind  the  public  cven'.s 
which  figure  in  history  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  and  the  opening  of  the. 
eighteenth  century,  indications  are  discernible  which  make  it  certain  that  a  reli- 
gious vitality  of  tliis  description  was  far  more  widely  diffused  than  is  commonly 
supposed.  A  single  example  will  be  sufficiently  suggestive.  One  M.  de  Marsay. 
who  threw  up  his  ensign's  commission  in  the  French  army,  and  retired,  with  two 
friends,  into  seclusion,  after  the  manner  recommended  by  Antoinette  Bourignon, 
left  behind  him  an  unpublished  Autobiography.  A  coi)y  from  a  translation  of 
this  curious  narrative,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Tindall  Harris,   has  been  kindly 

U  2 


^9^  Quietism.  r^  ^ 

placed  at  my  disposal  by  that  gentleman.  The  copy  was  executed  in  t^^^^^T^ 
some  one  who  liad  known  De  Marsay  personally  executed  m  1773,  by 

M.  de  Marsay  was  born  at  Paris,  in  1688,  of  Protestant  narentc;      A  mc    r 
devotional  reading  was  fostered,   in  early  youth    bv  the  Kof  h k  m   fi 
Juneu's  well  known  work  on  Di.ine  LovIiLnA  its  place  an  otsuch  sTule's' • 
but  none  of  the  mystical  writers.     When  he  had  enferpH  7l  L  h.,  studies  , 

half  the  day,  and  often  half  the  night  aL  wi  devmedio  eacTin^^meT';""" 
and  prayer.  At  one  time  he  maintained  a^  inwar^Snyer  f^r  thref'nr  f  J°"' 
without  intermission,   though  the  regiment  wnfnn     hi  i^   [°"'' '''''>■' 

all  hi.  1  fe.  W  hen  the  reaction  came,  his  efforts  to  overcome  the  natural  exl  ins 
tion  and  regain  his  spiritual  joy  were  so  strenuous  and  painfu  t  la  his  de  cnte' 
frame  gave  way,  and  symptoms  of  consumption  appeared.  His  dLress  ,Mh  s 
time  was  similar  to  that  of  Madame  Guyon,  and  of*  many  others  Lf^f.  1 
period  of  their  entrance  on  the  •  inward  \va  ■  '  TI°omas  4  Kem;.;f ,  ''''  i"' 
hand  ;  but  he  could  not  yet  understand  tiie^esson  which  the  1  lor'e  e  ^rienced 
mystics  so  earnestly  inculcate,— that  spiritual  nleTsurp^  ma,  k  ^^'^P'^'' 
greedily,-that  we  should  persevere  and  rust.  SetheTin  sen^ble'd'f  .  l""" 
obscuration,  whether  in  fulness  or  \ariditv  '  He  lav  cirk  nT  T^  f  =  V  ""^ 
months,  calmly  lookingfordeath.  and  then'^io  t^e^SUfof^ll'^'ecov'^^ei'"'^ 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  Lieutenant  Cordier   has  been  rPidlncr  rA,,.  ■    V 

in  TeneMs,  in  the  camp  before  Bethune.     He'^rit^  ^S  jla^sT!^^^^^^ 
he  was  now  convinced  the  devotion  thev  haH  hiti,pr.^  ,...  ,■   ^  .   ^'  V^^'"^  "^'^^ 
nothing  ;  that  he  had  resolved  to  qu  t  tL  army  a SXe  ^so  ,^^^^^^  "' 

to  live  a  life  of  poverty  and  devotion.  M  Et^er  th  .hn^f  ?T'  '''^"^ 
ment  was  of  like  min^  ;  if  De  ^Iarsay  wouldS  M'adame'K.'no  tTvotHd 
probably  arrive  at  the  conclusion,  and  ioin  them      So  inHp^rV?.         he  uould 

M  w»,,ze„™,  on  tlw  esh.le  of  ,l,e  Counless  Wilgensldn.  Thev  rise  a,  tar 
and  begin  ihe  dav  bv  readme  a  ehaoler  in  ihe  Rihi?     r-„  a-  'a  A     . .         ■ 

work  in  tl,e  Held,  and  Barraiier  l.as  b  Sl^?n  ,  re^dj  for^hel"?,  t  '■  ^'T"' 

scions.y  „,  .l.e  presence'of  God"a"?Si-r;i",\  ,T;seY.,'',XH';^  '""'^  "'- 
ippeJfie  swd^'di  ;"rt^"hU  pSThoLSl's"  %fSZ°'°"'  t"""-"  °'»  ""'» 


Dc  Mar  say  and  his  friatds-  ig^ 


to  have  abnndoned  him  to  himself.  What  lias  he  done?  He  has  eaten  a  potato 
between  meals  !  Only  by  the  most  ample  confession,  the  most  contrite  self- 
abasement,  can  he  recover  peace.  Terrible  tyranny  of  the  misguided  conscience 
over  the  feeble  judgment  !  Here  was  a  moral  power  that  might  have  made  a 
hero  ;  and  it  only  drives  a  slave. 

liut  tile  revulsion  must  come  ;  and  simultaneously  the  three  anchorites  remit 
their  silence  and  their  introversion,  and  (the  spell  once  broken)  chatter  inces- 
santly ;  now  one,  and  now  another,  bursting  into  fits  of  unmeaning,  involuntary 
laughter.  Yet,  through  all  such  mortifying  discouragement,  all  terror  and 
temptation,  De  Marsay  makes  his  way.  He  does  but  yield  himself,  in  his  help- 
lessness, the  more  absolutely  to  God,  to  be  delivered  from  his  spiritual  adversaries, 
if  He  wills,  or  to  be  abandoned  to  the  countless  possibilities  of  evil,  within  him 
and  about  him.  Bourignon  brought  him  to  this  point.  So  far  she  essays  to 
guide  souls  in  the  '  interior  way  ;'  after  that,  the  Divine  Conductor  leads  them 
each  as  He  will. 

With  poor  Cordier  it  fared  not  so  well.  They  had  relaxed  their  rule,  he  said  : 
he  would  leave  them,  and  live  entirely  alone.  So  he  was  carried  from  extreme 
to  extreme,  till  he  reached  a  spurious  resignation — a  passivity  which  did  not 
resist  evii--a  self-forget  fulness  which  ceased  to  recognise  in  himself  his  most 
dangerous  enemy.  From  the  height  of  spiritual  pride  he  was  precipitated  into 
licence.  A  woman  living  near,  with  great  affectation  of  sanctity,  beguiled  him 
into  marriage.  This  female  Tartuffe  stood  afterwards  revealed  in  her  real 
iniquity  ;  and  Cordier  eventually  returned  to  the  world  and  a  godless  libertinism. 

Tiie  Countess  Witgenstein  gave  shelter,  aliout  this  time,  to  a  Lady  Clara  de 
Callenberg,  who  had  suffered  much  domestic  unhappiness  on  account  of  her 
pietism.  This  lady,  considerably  his  senior,  De  Marsay  saw,  wooed,  and  won. 
Our  pair  of  ascetics  resolved  to  live  a  life  of  absolute  continence,  and  De  Marsay 
renders  hearty  thanks  that  (in  spite  of  many  temptations)  they  received  grace  to 
adhere  to  their  determination.  The  good  man's  manner  of  reasoning  is 
curious.  The  first  thought  of  a  change  of  life  occurred  to  him  one  day,  when 
sitting,  '  in  great  calmness  of  mind,'  under  a  tree,  with  his  knitting-tackle.  '  It 
was  shown  to  me, — if  it  was  true  tliat  I  was  willing  to  be  the  property  of  God 
witliout  exception,  it  was  his  will  that  I  should  give  Him  the  first  proof  thereof, 
in  marrying  the  Lady  Clara  de  Callenberg.'  Barratier  married  them,  and  so 
the  original  association  was  finally  dissolved.*  The  marriage  was  a  very  happy 
one,  their  principal  outward  trial  arising  from  the  frequent  indisposition  of  his 
wife,  who  ruined  her  constitution  by  the  iniserable  austerity  of  her  diet.  'I'hey 
were  all  but  penniless  ;  yet  in  this  they  rejoiced,  as  so  much  exercir;e  of  faith  ; 
and,  indeed,  such  moderate  means  as  they  required  were  generally  found  forth- 
coming from  one  quarter  or  another. 

De  \Iarsay  did  not  always  remain  in  their  hut  at  Schwartzenau  ;  he  journeyed 
to  Switzerland  to  visit  his  mother,  and  again  to  Paris  to  see  his  brother,  passing 
tiirough  Blois  with  letters  to  Madame  Guyon,  who  died  shortly  before  he  reached 
that  city.  He  travelled  also  repeatedly,  in  company  with  his  wife,  everywhere 
finding  little  circles  of  devout  persons  who  received  them  with  open  arms.  His 
narrative  is  full  of  the  difficulties  he  found  in  ascertaining  the  divine  will,  .\gaiu 
and  again  does  he  discover,  after  an  interval  of  years,  that  steps  taken  in  the  full 
persuasion  that  they  were  divinely  directed,  were,  in  reality,  self-moved  and 
erroneous.  He  fears  to  relax  a  severity,  lest  it  should  be  self-indulgence  ;  he 
fears  to  prolong  it,  lest  it  should  be  self-righteousness.  After  making  one 
sacrifice,  an  additional  one  suggests  itself  as  possible,  and  the  longer  the  thought 


•  Barratier  subsequently  became  minister  to  the  French  church  in  Halle 


294  Quietism,  [c  i. 

is  entertained,  the  more  liopeless  is  peace  of  mind,  till  conscience  has  compelled 
that  also  ;  and  all  this,  sometimes  from  first  to  last,  in  fear  and  darkness.  After 
dividing  most  of  their  little  store  among  the  poor,  and  selling  their  cottage  as  too 
large,  Madame  de  Marsay  can  know  no  rest  from  her  fears  till  the  greater  part 
of  the  money  received  has  been  also  given  away, — that  the  command  may  be 
obeyed,  'Sell  all  that  thou  hast.'  Yet,  through  all  self-made  troubles,  the 
genuineness  of  their  religion  shines  out.  He  is  ever  humble,  thankful,  trustful. 
The  reading  of  Madame  Guyon  weans  him  still  farther  from  '  sensible  religious 
delights  ;'  he  enters  calmly  into  the  state  of  '  dark  faith  ;'  begins  to  attach  less 
importance  to  austerities  ;  loses  much  of  his  stiffness  ;  will  attend  public  worship, 
and  commune. 

It  is  instructive  to  mark  how  few  of  those  concerning  whom  he  writes  as 
having  entered  on  the  higher  religious  life,  are  found  holding  on  in  that  course. 
After  an  interval  of  absence,  he  returns  to  a  neighbourhood  where  he  had  known 
several  such.  He  finds  most  of  them  in  darkness  and  disappointment.  They 
know  not  where  their  souls  are,  or  what  has  come  to  them.  Some  are  sunk  in 
apathy.  There  are  those  who  retain  the  form,  though  their  fire  has  gone  out 
long  ago.  Others  have  plunged  from  high  profession  into  vices  the  most  shame- 
less. Yet  a  remnant  are  preserved  through  all  tlie  dangers  of  the  way.  Those 
perplexities  and  doubts  which  so  frequently  clouded  the  pathway  of  De  Marsay, 
were  probably  his  safeguard.  In  a  life  of  such  excessive  introspection,  a 
proper  self-distrust  must  almost  necessarily  take  the  form  of  morbid  scrupulosity. 
Even  he  had  some  narrow  escapes,  for  which  he  does  well  to  sing  his  lowly  Noii 
nobis  Domiiie  !  He  came  afterwards  to  see  how  injurious  was  that  withdraw- 
ment  from  all  public  worship  (habitual  with  himself  and  his  wife),  in  the  case  of 
those  who  had  children.  The  offspring  of  such  parents  either  grew  up  with  a 
contempt  for  the  ordinances  of  religion,  or,  finding  their  position  as  separatists 
hurtful  to  their  advancement  in  the  world,  conformed,  from  interested  motives. 

In  1731,  Count  Zinzendorf  came  to  Schwartzenau,  and  fascinated  the  De 
Marsays  for  a  time.  But  De  Marsay — so  melancholy,  and  so  given  to  solitude 
— was  not  one  long  '  to  find  good  for  his  soul'  in  connexion  with  any  religious 
community  whatever.  The  Moravian  converts  met  at  first  at  his  house,  and  he 
preached  to  them  two  or  three  times,  with  remarkable  acceptance.  But  he 
detected  pleasure  to  sense  and  self  in  such  exercise  of  his  gifts,  and  left  them, 
resolving  to  yield  himself  up  to  the  way  of  dark  faith— to  'die  off  from  all  the 
creatures' — to  be  as  one  excommunicate,  and  perishing  in  tJie  wilderness  of 
spiritual  desertion  for  his  unfaithfulness. 

His  difficulties  were  not  diminished  by  mystical  metaphysics.  There  is  the 
Ground  of  his  soul,  and  its  inward  attraction,  to  be  followed,  whatever  reason, 
prudence,  reflection,  and  even  that  which  seems  conscience,  may  urge  or  thunder 
against  it.  Whether  the  attraction  be  false  or  true,  is  exceedingly  hard  todite:- 
mine  ;— the  issue  frequently  proves  it  the  former,  and  that  the  common-sense 
folk  about  him  were  right  after  all.  He  arrives  at  a  state— the  wished-for  state, 
in  fact— free  from  all  form,  imnge,  object  of  hope,  &c.— a  total  blank  of  the 
senses  and  powers,  and  yet  complains  bitterly  of  the  misery  of  that  condicion. 
Reason,  internal  sense,  hope,— all  have  been  abandoned,  and  yet,  out  of  the 
internal  ground  there  arises  nothing  in  the  shape  of  light  or  encouragement. 
The  most  harassing  secular  life,  in  which  he  would  have  been  driven  to  look  out 
of  himself  to  Christ,  had  been  truer  and  happier  than  this  morbid  introversion. 

A  single  passage  in  his  history  (and  there  are  several  like  it)  is  better  than  a 
treatise  in  illustration  of  the  dangers  which  beset  the  notion  of  ferccplible 
spiritual  guidance.  He  is  at  Berleberg  (1726),  and  hears  of  emigration  thence 
to  Pennsylvania.  As  he  lies  awake  one  night,  it  is  strongly  impressed  upon  hi? 
mind  that  he  ought  to  go  :  he  and  his  wife  might  realize  a  complete  solitude  ic 


,  A  Bright  Sunset.  295 


that  land  of  cheapness  and  freedom    ^^^1^^^^^:^^^:^^ 

mwmmmm 

hazard?    Agam,    us  ^''?^Zj''SsSS    JI"£L^^^^^^  ;  "u  Ttamsdije,  up  ,o 

The  sacrifice  had  been" made,  hoNv^ver,  said  De  ^  fJ^-Y' j!^,f  ^^^t°"s  original 
the  victim  ^vas  not  to  be  actual  y  slain.   J'^^i";^   '^'^^^°  ,'JVoni  his  excessive 

rSSd  w.th  the  oracles  of  an  i"?<-^.g-f  Pf -P''S'/"st    o^ut  fear,  and  anon 

He  no  longer  conceives  U  '^-J^-^^^y,  °^,'^''^,,'i°h^  Botticher,  the  husband  of 

husband  rejoiced  in  his  f  durance  oinerj,  _  ^^^^^  ^^^^^ 

'„°br  lS:'S™s^.UT«"o^ciSS;^;I1,av;  so  .ong  and  a,d.„„ 
wished  and  hoped  for. 


BOOK   THE    ELEVENTH 


MYSTIC rs AT  IN  p:ngland 


o 


CHAPTER  1. 

Is  virtue  then,  unless  of  Christian  growth, 

Mere  fallacy,  or  foolishness,  or  Ijoth? 

Ten  thousand  sages  lost  in  endless  woe. 

For  ignorance  of  what  they  could  not  know  ? 

That  speech  betrays  at  once  a  bigot's  tongue  ; 

Charge  not  a  God  with  such  outrageous  wrong. 

Truly  not  I— the  partial  light  men  have, 

My  creed  persuades  me,  well  employed,  may  save  ; 

While  he  that  scorns  the  noonday  beam,  perverse, 

Shall  find  the  blessing,  unimproved,  a  curse. 

Cow  PER. 

NE  morning,  Willoughby,  calling  on  Atherton,  found  him 
and  Gower  looking  over  an  old-fashioned  litde  volume. 

Willoughby.  What  have  you  there,  Atherton  ? 

Atherton.  A  curious  old  book— 77/^  History  of  Hal  Ebn 
Yokhdan,  by  Abu  Jaafer  Ebn  Tophail— an  Arabian  philosopher 
of  Spain,  writing  in  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth  century  :  '  done 
into  English '  by  Simon  Ockley. 

Gower  {to  Willoughby).  I  happened  to  be  looking  through^ 
Barclay's  Apology— io\vci(^  him  referring  to  this  History  oj 
Yokhdan;  and,  behold,  Atherton  fetches  me  down,  from  one 
of  his  topmost  dust-of -erudition  strata  there,  the  very  book.  It 
appears  that  good  Barclay  was  so  hard  put  to  it,  to  find 
examples  for  the  support  of  his  doctrine  concerning  the  Uni- 
versal and  Saving  Light,  that  he  has  pressed  this  shadowy 
philosophical  romance  into  the  service,  as  an  able-bodied 
unexceptionable  fact :— sets  up  a  fanciful  ornament  from  the 
Moorish  arabesques  of  Toledo  as  a  bulwark  for  his  theory. 
Willoughby.  Who,  then,  may  this  Hai  Ebn  Yokhdan  be? 
Atherton.  Simply  a  mystical  Robinson  Crusoe.  The  book 
relates  how  a  child  was  exposed  in  an  ark  upon  the  sea,  drifted 


300  Mysticism  in  England.  fn.  xu 

to  a  Fortunate  Island  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  was  there  suckled 
by  a  roe,  dresses  himself  with  skins  and  feathers,  builds  a  hut, 
tames  a  horse,  rises  to  the  discovery  of  '  One  supreme  and 
necessarily  self-existent  Being,'  and  does,  at  last,  by  due 
abstinence  and  exclusion  of  all  external  objects,  attain  to  a 
mystical  intuition  of  Him — a  contemplation  of  the  divine 
essence,  and  a  consciousness  that  his  own  essence,  thus  lost  in 
God,  is  itself  divine  : — all  this,  by  the  unaided  inner  Light.  A 
Mussulman  hermit  who  is  landed  on  the  island,  there  to  retire 
from  mankind,  finds  him  ;  teaches  him  to  speak  ;  artd  discovers, 
to  his  devout  amazement,  that  this  Ebn  Yokhdan  has  attained, 
first  by  deduction  from  the  external  world,  and  then,  abandon- 
ing that,  by  immediate  intuition,  to  the  very  truth  concerning 
God  which  he  has  learnt  through  the  medium  of  the  Koran — 
the  tee-totum  mysticism  of  spinning  dervishes  included.' 

GowER.  Barclay,  citing  his  Arab,  points  the  moral  as  teach- 
ing '  that  the  best  and  most  certain  knowledge  of  God,  is  not 
that  which  is  attained  by  premises  premised,  and  conclusions 
deduced  ;  but  that  which  is  enjoyed  by  conjunction  of  the 
Mind  of  Man  with  the  Supreme  Intellect,  after  the  mind  is 
purified  from  its  corruption  and  is  separated  from  all  bodily 
images,  and  is  gathered  into  a  profound  stillness.'  * 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  the  simple-hearted  apologist  of  the 
Friends  never  suspected  that  this  story  was  a  philosopher's  con- 
jecture— Abu  Tophail's  ideal  of  what  the  inner  light  might  be 
supposed  to  teach  a  man,  in  total  seclusion  ? 

Atherton.  Not  he.  At  any  rate,  Yokhdan  figures  in  the 
first  half-dozen  editions  of  the  Apology.  I  believe,  in  none 
later. 

GowEK.  A  curious  sight,  to  see  the  Arabian  Sufi  and  the 
English  (Quaker  keeping  company  so  lovingly. 

'  See  Note  on  p.  310. 
2  Barclay  s  Apology,  propp.  v.  and  vi.  §27,  p.  194.     Fourth  Edition,  1701. 


I.]  Britain  poor  in  Mysticism.  30 1 


WiLLOUGHBV.  And  yet  how  utterly  repugnant  to  our  English 
natures,  that  contemplative  Oriental  mysticism, 

GowER.  In  practice,  of  course.  But  in  the  theory  lies  a 
common  ground. 

Atherton.  Our  island  would  be  but  a  spare  contributor  to 
a  general  exhibition  of  mystics.  The  British  cloister  has  not 
one  great  mystical  saint  to  show.  Mysticism  did  not,  with  us, 
prepare  the  way  for  the  Reformation.  John  Wycliffe  and  John 
Tauler  are  a  striking  contrast  in  this  respect.  In  the  time  of 
the  Black  Death,  the  Flagellants  could  make  no  way  with  us. 
Whether  coming  as  gloomy  superstition,  as  hysterical  fervour, 
or  as  pantheistic  speculation,  mysticism  has  found  our  soil  a 
thankless  one. 

GowER.  I  should  like  to  catch  a  Hegelian,  in  good  condi- 
tion, well  nourished  with  the  finest  of  thrice-bolted  philosophic 
grain,  duly  ignorant  of  England,  and  shut  him  up  to  determine, 
from  the  depths  of  his  consciousness,  what  would  be  the  form 
which  mysticism  must  necessarily  assume  among  us. 

Atherton.  He  would  probably  be  prepared  to  prove  to  us 
a  priori  that  we  could  not  possibly  evolve  such  a  product 
at  all. 

Gower.  Most  likely.  The  torches  of  the  Bacchantes,  flung 
into  the  Tiber,  were  said  still  to  burn  ;  but  what  whirling  en- 
thusiast's fire  could  survive  a  plunge  into  the  Thames  ?  There 
could  be  nothing  for  it  but  sputtering  extinction,  and  then  to 
float — a  sodden  lump  of  pine  and  pitch,  bobbing  against  the 
stolid  sides  of  barges. 

Wii.LOUGHBY.  The  sage  might  be  pardoned  for  prophesying 
that  our  mysticism  would  appear  in  some  time  of  religious 
stagnation — a  meteoric  flash  spasmodically  flinging  itself  this 
Avay  and  that,  startling  with  its  radiance  deep  slimy  pools,  black 
rich  oozing  reaches  of  plurality  and  sinecure.  Remembering 
the  very  practical  mysticism  of  the  Munster  Anabaptists,  he 


302  Mysticism  in  England.  [b.  xt. 

might  invest  our  mystical  day-star  with  such  '  trains  of  fire 
and  dews  of  death ;'  or  depict  it  as  a  shape  of  terror,  like  his 
who  '  drew  Priam's  curtain  at  the  dead  of  night ;'  heralding 
horrors  ;  and  waking  every  still  cathedral  close  to  dread  the 
burning  fate  that  befell,  '  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium.' 

Atherton.  It  certainly  would  have  been  hard  to  foresee  that 
mysticism  in  England  would  arise  just  when  it  did — would  go 
so  far,  and  no  farther  : — that  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth, 
when  there  was  fuller  religious  freedom  by  far,  and,  throughout 
the  whole  middle  class,  a  more  earnest  religious  life  than  at  any 
former  period  of  our  history, — when  along  the  ranks  of 
triumphant  Puritanism  the  electric  light  of  enthusiasm  played 
every  here  and  there  upon  the  steel  which  won  them  victory, 
and  was  beheld  with  no  ominous  misgiving,  but  hailed  rather 
as  Pentecostal  effluence, — that,  at  such  a  juncture,  Quakerism 
should  have  appeared  to  declare  this  liberty  insufficiently  free, 
this  spirituality  too  carnal,  this  enthusiasm  too  cold, — to  profess 
to  eject  more  thoroughly  yet  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil, 
— to  take  its  place  in  the  confused  throng  contending  about  the 
'bare-picked  bone'  of  Hierarchy,  and  show  itself  not  to  be 
tempted  for  a  moment  by  wealth,  by  place,  by  power, — to  com- 
mit many  follies,  but  never  a  single  crime, — to  endure  enume- 
rable wrongs,  but  never  to  furnish  one  example  of  resistance  or 
revenge. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Well  doue,  old  England  !  It  is  gratifying  to 
think  that,  on  our  shores,  mysticism  itself  is  less  fantastic  than 
its  wont, — labours  benignly,  if  not  always  soberly ;  and  is  re- 
presented, not  by  nightmared  visionaries,  or  fury-driven  perse- 
cutors, but  by  the  holy,  tender-hearted,  much-enduring  George 
Fox.  The  Muggletonians,  Fifth-Monarchy  men,  and  Ranters 
of  those  days  were  the  exceptional  mire  and  dirt  cast  up  by  the 
vexed  times,  but  assuredly  not  the  representatives  of  English 
mysticism. 


c.  I.]  George  Fox.  303 

Atherton.  The  elements  of  Quakerism  lie  all  complete  in 
the  personal  history  of  Fox ;  and  the  religious  sect  is,  in  many  re- 
spects, the  perpetuation  of  his  individual  character  • — the  same 
intellectual  narrowness,  incident  to  an  isolated,  half-disciplineci 
mind,  and  the  same  large,  loving  heart  of  charity  for  all  men. 
Remember  how  he  describes  himself  as  '  knowing  pureness  and 
righteousness  at  eleven  years  of  age ;'  carefully  brought  up,  so 
that  from  his  childhood  all  vice  and  profaneness  were  an 
abomination  to  him.  Then  there  were  his  solitary  musings  and 
sore  inward  battles,  as  he  walked  about  his  native  Drayton 
many  nights  by  himself:  his  fastings  oft;  his  much  walking 
abroad  in  solitary  spots  many  days ;  his  sitting,  with  his  Bible, 
in  hollow  trees  and  lonesome  places,  till  night  came  on. 
Because  the  religious  teachers  to  whom  he  applied  in  his  temp- 
tations to  despair  were  unhappily  incompetent  to  administer 
relief,  he  concludes  too  hastily  that  the  system  of  ministerial 
instruction  is  more  often  a  hindrance  than  a  help  to  '  vital  god- 
liness.' Because  'priest  Stevens'  worked  up  some  of  his 
remarks  in  conversation  into  his  next  Sunday's  sermon, — because 
the  '  ancient  priest'  at  Mansetter,  to  whom  he  next  applied, 
could  make  nothing  of  him.  and  in  despair  recommended 
tobacco  and  psalm-singing  (furthermore  violating  his  confidence, 
and  letting  young  George's  spiritual  distresses  get  wind  among 
a  bevy  of  giggling  milk-lasses), — because,  after  travelling  seven 
miles  to  a  priest  of  reputed  experience  at  Tamworth.  he  found 
him  after  all  '  but  like  an  empty  hollow  cask,' — because  horti- 
cultural Dr.  Cradock  of  Coventry  fell  into  a  passion  with  him 
for  accidentally  trampling  on  the  border  of  his  fiower-bed, — 
because  one  Macham,  a  priest  in  high  account,  offered  him 
physic  and  prescribed  blood-letting, — therefore  the  institution 
of  a  clerical  order  was  an  error  and  a  mischief,  mainly  charge- 
able with  the  disputings  of  the  church,  and  the  ungodliness  of 
the  world.  So,  in  his  simplicity,  he  regarded  it  as  a  momentous 


304  Mysticism  in  England.  [b. 


discovery  to  have  it  opened  to  him  '  that  being  bred  at  Oxford 
or  Cambridge  was  not  enough  to  fit  and  quaUfy  men  to  be 
ministers  of  Christ'^ 

GowER.  We  may  hold  that  without  joining  the  Society  of 
Friends. 

Atherton.  In  like  manner  he  argues  that  because  believers 
are  the  temple  of  the  Spirit,  and  many  venerate  places  super- 
stitiously,  or  identify  church-going  with  religion,  therefore 
'  steeple-liouses'  are  a  sinful  innovation,  diftusing,  for  the  most 
part,  darkness  rather  than  light.  ]]ecause  it  appeared  to  him 
that  in  his  study  of  the  Scriptures  he  knew  Christ  '  only  as  the 
light  grew' — by  inward  revelation — 'as  he  that  hath  the  key 
did  open,'  therefore  the  doctrine  of  the  inward  Light  is  pro- 
claimed to  all  as  tlie  central  principle  of  Redemption. 

GowER.  True.  This  proneness  to  extremes  has  led  his  fol- 
lowers often  to  attach  undue  importance  to  the  mere  externals 
of  a  protest  against  externalism.  Those  peculiarities  of  dress 
and  speech  are  petty  formalities  unworthy  of  their  main  prin- 
ciple. In  his  '  Epistle  to  gathered  C/wrc/ies  into  outward  for7ns 
upon  the  Earth,'  Fox  can  see  scarce  a  vestige  of  spiritual 
religion  anywhere  beyond  the  pale  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 

Atherton.  Yet  ascetic  and  narrow  on  many  points  as  he 
unquestionably  was,  and  little  disposed  to  make  concession  to 
human  weakness,  in  practical  charity  he  was  most  abundant. 
Oppression  and  imprisonment  awakened  the  benevolent,  never 
the  malevolent  impulses  of  his  nature, — only  adding  fervour  to 
his  plea  for  the  captive  and  the  oppressed.  His  tender  con- 
science could  know  no  fellowship  with  the  pleasures  of  the 
world  ;  his  tender  heart  could  know  no  weariness  in  seeking  to 
make  less  its  sum  of  suffering.  He  is  a  Cato-Howard.  You 
see  him  in  his  early  days,  refusing  to  join  in  the  festivities  of 
the  time  called  Christmas  ;  yet,  if  a  stranger  to  the  mirth,  never 

3  Fox's  journal,  pp.  76-83. 


c.  I.]  Foxs  PJiilantJiropJiy,  305 

to  the  mercy,  of  that  kindly  season.  From  house  to  house  he 
trudges  in  the  snow,  visiting  poor  widows,  and  giving  tlicm 
money.  Invited  to  marriage  merry-makings,  he  will  not  enter 
the  house  of  feasting;  but  the  next  day,  or  soon  after,  we  find 
him  there,  offering,  if  the  young  couple  are  poor,  the  effectual 
congratulation  of  pecuniary  help.  In  the  prison-experiences 
of  (jeorge  Fox  are  to  be  found  the  germs  of  that  modern 
philanthropy  in  which  his  followers  have  distinguished  them- 
selves so  nobly.  In  Derby  Jail  he  is  •  exceedingly  exercised  ' 
about  the  proceedings  of  the  judges  and  magistrates — con- 
cerning their  putting  men  to  death  for  cattle,  and  money,  and 
small  matters, — and  is  moved  to  write  to  them,  showing  the 
sin  of  such  severity;  and,  moreover,  'what  an  hurtful  thing  it 
was  that  prisoners  should  lie  so  long  in  jail  ;  how  that  they 
learned  badness  one  of  another  in  talking  of  their  bad  deeds  ; 
and  therefore  speedy  justice  should  be  done.'* 

V/iLLouGHBY.  How  the  spirit  of  benevolence  pervades  all 
the  Journals  of  the  early  Friends.  Look  at  John  Woolman, 
who  will  neither  write  nor  have  letters  written  to  him  by 
post,  because  the  horses  an;  overwrought,  and  the  hardships 
of  the  postboys  so  great.  When  farthest  gone  in  rhapsody, 
this  redeeming  characteristic  was  never  wanting  to  the  Quakers. 
It  may  ]je  said  of  some  of  them,  as  was  said  of  dying  Pope — 
uttering,  between  his  wanderings,  only  kindness — '  humanity 
seems  to  have  outlasted  understanding.' 

Atherton.  As  to  doctrine,  again,  consider  how  much 
religious  extravagance  was  then  afloat,  and  let  us  set  it  down 
to  the  credit  of  Fox  that  his  mystical  excesses  were  no  greater. 
At  Coventry  he  finds  men  in  prison  for  religion  who  declared, 
to  his  horror,  that  they  were  God.  While  at  Derby,  a  soldier 
who  had  been  a  Baptist,  comes  to  him  from  Nottingham,  and 
argues  that  Christ  and  the  prophets  suffered  no  one  of  them 

••  Fox's  Journal,  vol.  i.  p.  130. 
VOL.  II.  X 


30^  Mysticism  in  England.  [b.  xi. 

externally,  only  internally.  Another  company,  he  says,  came 
to  him  there,  who  professed  to  be  triers  of  spirits,  and  when  he 
questioned  them,  '  were  presently  up  in  the  airy  mind,'  and 
said  he  was  mad.  The  priests  and  magistrates  were  not  more 
violent  against  him  than  the  Ranters,  who  roved  the  country 
in  great  numbers,  professing  to  work  miracles,  forbidding  other 
enthusiasts  to  preach,  on  pain  of  damnation ;  and  in  comparison 
with  whom,  Fox  was  soberness  itself.  Rice  Jones,  the  Ranter, 
from  Nottingham,  prophesies  against  him  with  his  company. 
At  Captain  Bradford's  house,  Ranters  come  from  York  to 
wrangle  with  him.  In  the  Peak  country  they  oppose  him,  and 
'fall  a-swearing.'  At  Swanington,  in  Leicestershire,  they 
disturb  the  meeting— hound  on  the  mob  against  the  Friends ; 
they  sing,  whistle,  and  dance  ;  but  their  leaders  are  confounded 
everywhere  by  the  power  of  the  Lord,  and  many  of  their  fol- 
lowers, says  the  youniai,  were  reached  and  convinced,  and 
received  the  Spirit  of  God ;  and  are  come  to  be  a  pretty  people, 
living  and  walking  soberly  in  the  truth  of  Christ."  Such  facts 
should  be  remembered  in  our  estimate.  Fox's  inner  light 
does  not  profess  to  supersede,  nor  does  it  designedly  contra- 
dict, the  external  light  of  Revelation. 

But  hand  me  his  yournal  a  moment.  Here  is  a  curious 
passage.  It  shows  what  a  narrow  escape  Fox  had  of  being 
resolved  into  an  English  Jacob  Behmen. 

He  says,  *  Now  (he  was  about  four-and-twenty  at  the  time) 
was  I  come  up  in  spirit,  through  the  flaming  sword,  into  the 
paradise  of  God.  All  things  were  new ;  and  all  the  creation 
gave  another  smell  unto  me  than  before,  beyond  Avhat  words 
can  utter.  I  knew  nothing  but  pureness  and  innocency  and 
righteousness,  being  renewed  up  into  the  image  of  God  by 
Christ  Jesus  j  so  that  I  say  I  was  come  up  to  the  state  of 

5  Fox's  Journal,  vol.  i.  pp.  109,  129,  232.  Vaughan's  Hist.  0/ En olaud  under 
the  House  of  Stuart,  p.  539. 


C.I.]  Preacher  or  Doctor.  307 

Adam  which  he  was  in  before  he  fell.  The  creation  was  opened 
to  me ;  and  it  was  showed  me  how  all  things  had  their  names 
given  them,  according  to  their  nature  and  virtue.  And  I  was 
at  a  stand  in  my  mind  whether  I  should  practise  physic  for  the 
good  of  mankind,  seeing  the  nature  and  virtues  of  the  creatures 
were  so  opened  to  me  by  the  Lord.  But  I  was  immediately 
taken  up  in  spirit  to  see  into  another  or  more  stedfast  state 
than  Adam's  in  innocency,  even  into  a  state  in  Christ  Jesus, 
that  should  never  fall.  And  the  Lord  showed  me  that  such  as 
were  faithful  to  Him  in  the  power  and  light  of  Christ,  should 
come  up  into  that  state  in  which  Adam  was  before  he  fell ;  in 
which  the  admirable  works  of  the  creation,  and  the  virtues 
thereof  may  be  known,  through  the  openings  of  that  divine 
word  of  wisdom  and  power  by  which  they  were  made.  Great 
things  did  the  Lord  lead  me  into,  and  wonderful  depths  were 
opened  unto  me,  beyond  what  can  by  words  be  declared ;  but 
as  people  come  into  subjection  to  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  grow 
up  in  the  image  and  power  of  the  Almighty,  they  may  receive 
the  word  of  wisdom  that  opens  all  things,  and  come  to  know 
the  hidden  unity  in  the  Eternal  Being." 

Here  he  has  arrived  on  life's  road  where  two  ways  meet ; — ' 
had  he  taken  the  wrong  alternative,  and  wandered  down  that 
shadowy  and  mysterious  theosophic  avenue,  ignorant  that  it 
was  no  thoroughfare,  what  a  difterent  history  !  Imagine  the 
intrepid,  heart-searching  preacher — the  redoubted  '  man  in 
leather  breeches ' — transformed  into  the  physician,  haply 
peruked  and  habited  in  black,  dispensing  inspired  prescriptions, 
and  writing  forgotten  treatises  on  Qualities  and  Signatures, 
Sympathies  and  Antipathies.  What  a  waste  of  that  indomit- 
able energy  ! 

WiLLOUGHBY.  How  destructive  to  human  life  might  his 
very  benevolence  have  proved. 

i'  Journal,  vol.  i,  p.  95. 

X  2 


3o8  Mysticism  in  England.  [b.  xi. 

GowER.  Whatever  direction  the  mysticism  of  a  man  like  Fox 
might  liave  taken,  it  must  have  been  always  actively  benevo- 
lent. His  mysticism  is  simple — no  artificial  stages  of  abstrac- 
tion, mounting  step  by  step  above  the  finite,  to  a  solitary 
superhuman  sanctity.  It  is  beneficent — his  many  and  various 
spiritual  distresses  were  permitted  by  God,  he  tells  us,  '  in  order 
that  he  might  have  a  sense  of  all  conditions — how  else  should 
he  speak  to  all  conditions?" 

AViLLOUGHBY.  Truly,  metaphysical  refinements  and  Platonic 
abstraction  could  have  no  charm  for  this  most  practical  of 
mystics.  What  a  contrast  here  is  his  pietism  to  that  of  Zinzen- 
dorf — as  abundant  in  sentiment  as  Fox  is  devoid  of  it. 

GowER.  Nicholas  of  Basle  is  more  like  Fox  than  any  of  the 
German  mystics — much  more  so  than  Tauler. 

Athertox.  Fox  is,  as  you  say,  eminently  practical  in  one 
sense,  yet  not  enough  so  in  another.  In  one  respect  Behmen 
and  Law  are  more  practical  than  he,  because  more  comprehen- 
sive. They  endeavour  to  infuse  a  higher  spiritual  life  into 
forms  and  communities  already  existing.  Fox  will  have  no 
steeple-houses,  vestments,  forms  of  prayer,  no  ministry,  regu- 
larly paid  and  highly  educated.  Such  a  code  is  not  practical, 
for  it  rests  on  an  abstraction  :  it  does  not  legislate  for  men  as 
they  are.  Formalism  does  not  lie  in  these  outward  things 
themselves — it  consists  in  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  used. 
Here,  you  see,  the  mystic,  who  will  always  go  beneath  the  sur- 
face to  the  reality,  is  too  supeilicial.  Formalism  cannot  be 
expelled  by  any  such  summary  process.      The  evil  lies  deeper. 

"  Journal'^.  89.    This  theopatlietic  lowers  of  Fox  often  caricatured  the 

mysticism  is   emphatically   transitive.  acted  symbolism  of  the  Hebrew  pro- 

Every  inward  manifestation  speedily  phets  with  the  most  profane  or  ludi- 

becomes  a  something  to  be  done,   a  crous  unseemliness.    Yet  stark-mad  as 

testimony  to  be  delivered.    The  Quaker  seemed  the  fashion  of  their  denuncia- 

is   'exercised,'  not  that  he  may  deck  tions,  their  object  was  very  commonly 

himself  in  the  glory  of  saintship,  but  to  some  intelligible  and  actual  error  or 

tit  him  for  rendering  service,  as  he  sup-  abuse, 
poses,  to  his  fellows.     The  early  fol- 


c.  I.]  Universal  Light.  309 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  with  the  asceticism  of  the  Friends.  The 
worldly  spirit  is  too  subtile  to  be  exorcised  by  a  strict  outward 
separation  between  church  and  world.  How  much  easier  is 
total  abstinence  from  scenes  of  amusement  than  temperance  in 
money-getting. 

GowER.  Yet  I  know  men  and  women  who  pique  themselves 
on  their  separateness  from  the  world,  because  they  were  never 
seen  at  a  concert,  whose  covetousness,  insincerity,  or  censorious 
speech,  proclaim  them  steeped  in  worldliness  to  the  very  lips. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  What  say  you,  Atherton,  to  the  doctrine  of 
the  Universal  Light  ?  In  their  theor}'  on  this  matter  the 
mystics  seem  to  divide  into  two  classes.  With  the  mystics  of 
the  fourteenth  century  there  is  still  left  in  fallen  man  a  native 
tendency  Godward,  on  which  grace  lays  hold.  With  Behmen 
and  Fox,  on  the  contrary,  the  inward  Seed  is  a  supernatural 
gift,  distinct  from  conscience,  reason,  or  any  relics  of  natural 
goodness — the  hidden  word  of  promise,  inspoken  into  all  men, 
iu  virtue  of  the  redeeming  work  of  Christ* 

Atherton.  I  do  not  believe  that  fallen  man  required  a 
divine  bestowment  of  this  kind — a  supernatural  soul  within  the 
soul,  to  give  him  a  moral  sense,  and  make  him  responsible. 
But  I  am  so  far  a  believer  in  the  doctrine  that  I  would  not  go 
beyond  what  is  written,  and  rigidly  confine  all  the  benefits  of 
Christ's  redemption  to  those  only  who  have  Iiad  access  to  the 
Christian  Scriptures.  The  words  of  the  Apostle  are  still  appli- 
cable,— '  Is  he  the  God  of  the  Jews  only,  is  he  not  of  the 
Gentiles  also?'  I  cannot  suppose  that  all  Pagan  minds,  past 
and  present,  have  been  utterly  and  for  ever  abandoned  by  the 
Divine  Spirit,  because  the  dispensation  under  which  they  have 

8  Barclay's  Apology,  propp.  v.  and  Compare  j.  J.  Gurney's  Ob  sen  at  ions 

vi.  16.    S&weXXs  History,  p- SAA-   (Bar-  on  the Dis'tinguishiiig  Vicivs  and Prac- 

clay's   Letter  to   Paeti)  ;   also  p.    646  tices  of  the  'Jcciety  of  Friends,  chap.  i. 

(^The  Christian  Doctrine  of  the  People  p.  59. 
called  Quakers,   &c.,  published  1693). 


3IO  Mysticism  in  England.  [b.  xi. 

been  placed  is  so  much  less  privileged  than  our  own.  God  has 
light  enough  to  be  Himself,  in  the  twilight,  even  as  in  the 
noonday.  Did  He  rule  the  rising  and  falling  of  ancient  nations, 
working  all  things  toward  the  fulness  of  time  ; — did  He  care 
for  the  bodies  of  those  heathen,  with  seedtime  and  harvest  for 
his  witness,  and  shall  we  suppose  that  He  debarred  Himself 
from  all  access  to  their  souls  ? 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Yet  no  doctrine  we  can  hold  on  this  question 
materially  lessens  the  mystery  of  that  dark  fact — the  prevalence 
of  Evil. 

Atherton.  I  am  afraid  not.  Whether  we  call  that  better 
part  of  man  the  light  of  nature,  conscience,  or  the  internal  Word, 
we  must  admit  that  it  accomplished  next  to  nothing  for  the 
restoration  of  the  vast  majority.  We  must  not  judge  of  the 
moral  effects  of  heathendom  by  the  philosophic  few  merely  ;  we 
must  remember  the  state  of  the  superstitious  many.  And 
mysticism  will  be  the  first  to  admit  that  an  inoperative  Christ 
(like  that  of  the  Antinomian,  for  example)  is  a  deceptive 
phantom  or  a  vain  formula. 

Our  own  position,  however,  is  the  same,  let  our  theory  or  our 
hope,  concerning  others,  be  what  it  may.  Whatever  it  may  be 
possible  (under  the  constitution  of  our  nature)  for  the  Spirit 
of  God  to  make  known  inwardly  to  that  man  who  is  shut  out 
from  external  teaching,  it  is  quite  certain  that  tue  shall  receive 
no  inward  communications  of  gracious  influence,  while  we 
neglect  those  outward  means  which  are  of  divine  appoint- 
ment. 


Note  to  page  300. 

The  full  title  of  the  work  referred  to  runs  as  follows  :  The  Improvement  of 
Human  Reason,  exhibited  in  the  Life  ofHai  Ebn  Yokhdan  :  written  in  Arabick 
about  50D  years  ago,  by  Abnjaafer  Ebn  Tophail.  In  which  is  demonstrated 
by  what  methods  one  may,  by  the  mere  Light  of  Natin-e,  attain  the  knowledge 
p'f  things  NatJtral  and  supernatural ;  more  particularly  the  knowledg    of  God 


c.  .i]  Hai  Ebn  Yoklidan.  311 

and  the  affairs  of  another  Life.  Newly  translated  from  the  original  Arabick  by 
fcjimon  Ockley,  iS;c.  170S. 

Ockley  adds  an  Appendix,  to  guard  the  book  from  abuse  by  the  Quakers, 
wherein  he  proposes  to  examine  '  the  fundamental  error'  of  his  author — viz.  that 
'  God  has  given  such  a  power  or  faculty  to  man  whereby  he  may,  witliout  any 
external  means,  attain  to  the  knowledge  of  all  things  necessary  to  salvation,  and 
even  to  the  Beatifick  Vision  itself,  whilst  in  the  state.' 

The  following  is  a  specimen  of  the  mystical  progress  which  our  Arabian  Defoe 
describes  his  Crusoe  as  making, — precisely  that  with  which  Ebn  Tophail  was 
well  acquainted,  but  which  no  real  solitary  libn  Yokhdan  could  ever  have  struck 
out  for  himself. 

'  He  began,  therefore,  to  strip  himself  of  all  bodily  properties,  which  he  had 
made  some  progress  in  before,  during  the  time  of  tlie  former  exercise,  when  he 
was  emplo)'ed  in  the  imitation  of  the  heavenly  bodies  ;  but  tliere  still  remained 
a  great  many  relicks,  as  his  circular  motion  (motion  beingoneof  the  most  proper 
attributes  of  body),  and  his  care  of  animals  and  plants,  compassion  upon  them, 
and  industry  in  removing  whatever  inconvenienced  them.  Now,  all  these  things 
belong  to  corporeal  attributes,  for  he  could  not  see  these  things  at  first,  but  by 
corporeal  faculties  ;  and  he  was  obliged  to  make  use  of  the  same  faculties  in  pre- 
serving them.  Therefore  he  began  to  reject  and  remove  all  those  things  from 
himself,  as  being  in  nowise  consistent  with  that  state  which  he  was  now  in  search 
of.  So  he  continued,  after  confining  himself  to  rest  in  the  bottom  of  his  cave, 
with  his  head  bowed  down  and  his  eyes  shut,  and  turning  himself  altogether 
from  all  sensible  things  and  the  corporeal  faculties,  and  bending  all  his  thoughts 
and  meditations  upon  the  necessarily  self-existent  Being,  without  admitting  any- 
thing else  besides  hiin  ;  and  if  any  other  object  presented  itself  to  his  imagina- 
tion, he  rejected  it  with  his  utmost  force  ;  and  exercised  himself  in  this,  and 
persisted  in  it  to  that  degree,  that  sometimes  he  did  neither  eat  nor  stir  for  a  great 
many  days  together.  And  whilst  he  was  thus  earnestly  taken  up  in  contempla- 
tion, sometimes  all  manner  of  beings  whatsoever  would  be  quite  out  of  his  mind 
and  thoughts,  except  his  own  being  only. 

'  But  he  found  that  his  own  being  was  not  excluded  from  his  thoughts  ; 
no,  not  at  such  times  when  he  was  most  deeply  immersed  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  first,  true,  necessarily  self-existent  Being  ;  which  concerned  him  very  much, 
■ — for  he  knew  that  even  this  was  a  mixture  in  this  simple  vision,  and  the  ad- 
mission of  an  extraneous  object  in  that  contemplation.  Upon  which  he 
endeavoured  to  disappear  from  himself,  and  be  wholly  taken  up  in  the  vision  of 
that  true  Being  ;  till  at  last  he  attained  it ;  and  then  both  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  and  whatsoever  is  between  them,  and  all  spiritual  forms,  and  corporeal 
faculties,  and  all  those  powers  which  are  separate  from  matter,  and  all  those 
beings  which  know  the  necessarily  self-existent  Being,  all  disappeared  and 
vanished,  and  were  as  if  they  had  never  been  ;  and  amongst  these  his  own  being 
disappeared  too,  and  there  remained  nothing  but  this  one,  true,  perpetually  self- 
existent  Being,  who  spoke  thus  in  tiiat  saying  of  his  (which  is  not  a  notion 
superadded  to  his  essence): — "To  whom  now  belongs  the  kingdom  ?  To  this 
One,  Almighty  God."*  Which  words  of  his  Hai  Ebn  Yokhdan  understood  and 
heard  his  voice ;  nor  was  his  being  unacquainted  with  words,  and  not  being  able 
to  speak,  any  hindrance  at  all  to  the  understanding  him.  \Vherefore  he  deeply 
immersed  himself  into  this  state,  and  witnessed  that  which  neither  eye  hath  seen 
nor  ear  heard,  nor  hath  it  ever  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive.'—' 

:^  83, 84. 

•  Koran. 


CHAPTER  II. 

And  to  such  ICnthusiasm  as  is  but  the  triumph  of  the  soul  of  man,  inebriated, 
AS  it  were,  witli  the  dehcious  sense  of  the  divine  hfe,  that  blessed  Root,  and 
Original  of  all  holy  wisdom  and  virtue,  I  am  as  much  a  friend  as  I  am  to  the 
vulgar  fanatical  Enthusiasm  a  professed  enemy. — Henry  Moke. 

T  ^  riLLOUGHBY.  There  is  no  mysticism  in  the  doctrine  of 
an  immediate  influence  exercised  by  the  Spirit  of  God  on 
the  spirit  of  man. 

Atherton.  Certainly  not.  It  would  be  strange  if  the 
Creator,  in  whom  we  live  and  move,  should  have  no  direct 
access  to  the  spirits  of  his  own  creatures. 

GowER.  Does  not  your  admission  indicate  the  line  between 
the  true  and  the  false  in  that  aspiration  after  immediate  know- 
ledge, intercourse,  or  intuition,  so  common  among  the  mystics? 
It  is  true  that  the  divine  influence  is  exerted  upon  us  directly. 
But  it  is  not  true  that  such  influence  dispenses  with  rather  than 
demands — suspends  rather  than  quickens,  the  desires  and 
faculties  of  our  nature.     So  it  appears  to  me  at  least. 

Atherton.  And  to  me  also. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  again  (to  continue  your  negatives,  Gower) 
it  is  not  true,  as  some  of  the  mystics  tell  us,  that  we  can  tran- 
scend with  advantage  the  figurative  language  of  Scripture  ;  or 
gaze  directly  on  the  Divine  Subsistence, — that  we  can  know 
without  knowledge,  believe  without  a  promise  or  a  fact,  and  so 
dispense,  in  religious  matters,  with  modes  and  media. 

Atherton.  Agreed.  For  ourselves,  I  believe  we  shall  alway?. 
find  it  true  that  the  letter  and  the  spirit  do  reciprocally  set  forth 
and  consummate  each  other, — 

'  Like  as  the  wind  doth  beautify  a  sail, 
And  as  a  sail  becomes  the  unseen  wind.' 


C.2.]  Defect  in  Fox's  T/ieology. 


We  see  truth  in  proportion  as  we  are  true.  The  outward 
written  word  in  our  hands  directs  us  to  the  unseen  Word  so 
high  above  us,  yet  so  near.  The  story  of  Christ's  Hfe  and 
death  is  our  soul's  food.  We  find  that  we  may — we  must,  sit 
in  spirit  at  his  feet,  who  so  spake,  so  Uved,  so  died.  And, 
having  been  with  him,  we  find  a  new  power  and  attraction  in 
the  words ;  we  are  led  by  the  Spirit  of  Christ  in  the  keeping 
of  those  commandments,  concerning  which  he  said,  *  The  words 
I  speak  unto  you,  they  are  spirit  and  they  are  life.' 

WiLLOUGHBY.  So  Plotinus  is  right,  in  a  sense,  after  all ; — 
like  only  can  know  like.  Our  likeness  to  Christ  is  our  true 
knowledge  of  him. 

Atherton.  Yes.  But  we  become  partakers  of  the  unseen 
life  and  light  of  God  only  through  the  viariifcstation  of  that  life 
and  light,  Christ  Jesus.  It  is  on  this  point  that  the  theology  of 
Fox  is  so  defective. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  His  doctrine  that  the  influence  of  the  Spirit 
\%  perceptible,  as  well  as  immediate,  is  still  more  questionable, 
surely? 

GowER.  Perceptible  !  aye,  and  physically  perceptible,  he  will 
have  it,  in  some  cases, — manifested  in  a  tremulous  agitation  of 
the  frame. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  True.  The  convulsive  movements  among  the 
Protestant  peasantry  of  the  Cevennes  are  a  similar  instance. 
This  spasmodical  religious  excitement  is  in  a  high  degree  in- 
fectious when  many  are  assembled  together. 

Atherton.  Yet  we  should  not  reject  the  doctrine  of  per- 
ceptible spiritual  guidance  because  it  is  so  liable  to  abuse.  My 
objection  is  that  I  have  never  seen  satisfactory  proof  adduced. 
Do  not  let  us  think,  however,  that  we  escape  from  the  danger 
of  self-delusion  by  denying  this  doctrine,  and  can  afford  to  be 
careless  accordingly.  You  often  see  persons  who  would  think 
the  Quaker   belief  a   dangerous   superstition,    unscrupulously 


314  Mysticism  in  hngtand.  [b.  xi. 

identifying  their  personal  or  party  interests  with  the  cause  of 
God,  as  though  they  believed  tliemselves  divinely  commissioned, 
and  could  not  possibly  be  liable  to  deception. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  Here  you  see  the  value  of  the  Quaker  doctrine 
concerning  stillness  and  quiet.  The  soul  must  be  withdrawn  in 
a  silent  waiting,  and  so  hearken  for  the  divine  voice.  The  im- 
pulses which  stir  in  the  unallayed  tumult  of  the  feelings  are  the 
promptings  of  passion  or  of  self,  not  of  God.  Wherever  the 
belief  in  perceptible  guidance  is  entertained,  this  practice  of 
tranquil  tarrying  should  accompany  it,  as  its  proper  safeguard. 

Atherton.  The  Quakers  are  wrong,  I  think,  in  separating 
particular  movements  and  monitions  as  divine.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  the  '  witness  of  the  Spirit,'  as  regards  our  state 
before  God,  is  something  more,  I  believe,  than  the  mere  attes- 
tation to  the  written  word. 

WiLLOUGHBY,  The  traditional  asceticism  of  the  Friends  is 
their  fatal  defect  as  a  body. 

Atherton.  And  their  proneness  to  hazard  good  principles 
by  pushing  them  to  some  repulsive  extreme.  Thus,  they  pro- 
pose to  abolish  physical  force  by  yielding  everything  to  it ; — to 
put  an  end  to  war  by  laying  Europe  at  the  feet  of  a  great 
military  power, — by  apologizing  for  the  oppressor  and  reviHng 
those  who  resist  him, 

GowER.  I  believe  the  man  who  says  to  me,  I  am  trying  to 
love  my  neighbour  as  myself :  I  suspect  him  who  professes  to 
love  him  better.  His  profession  is  worse  than  worthless  unless 
he  be  consistent,  and  will  allow  himself  to  be  swindled  witl 
impunity. 

Atherton.  We  may  well  be  suspicious  when  we  see  this 
super-Christian  morality  defended  by  arguments  which  can  only 
be  valid  with  the  meanest  and  most  grovelling  selfishness. 
Such  ethics  are,  in  promise,  more  than  human ;  in  performance 
— less. 


c.  2.]  Tlie  EnglisJi  Platonists.  315 

WiLLOUGHBY.  But,  leaving  this  question,  I  am  sure  no  sect 
which  systematically  secludes  itself  from  every  province  of  phi- 
losophy, literature,  and  art,  can  grow  largely  in  numbers  and 
in  influence  in  a  state  of  society  like  ours. 

GowER.  Our  English  Platonists  contrast  strongly,  in  this 
respect,  with  George  Fox  and  his  followers. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  How  incomprehensible  must  have  been  the 
rude  fervour  and  symbolic  prophesyings  of  the  Quakers  to  the 
refined  scholarship  and  retiring  devotion  of  men  like  More 
and  Norris,  Gale  and  Cudworth.  But  can  you  call  them 
mystics  ? 

Atherton.  Scarcely  so,  except  in  as  far  as  Platonism  is 
always  in  a  measure  mystical.  A  vein  of  mysticism  peeps  out 
here  and  there  in  their  writings.  Cold  rationalism  they  hate. 
They  warm,  with  a  ready  sympathy,  to  every  utterance  of  the 
tender  and  the  lofty  in  the  aspirations  of  the  soul.  But  their 
practical  English  sense  shows  itself  in  their  instant  rejection  of 
sentimentaiism,  extravagance,  or  profanity.  This  is  especially 
the  case  with  More — as  shrewd  in  some  things  as  he  was 
credulous  in  others,  and  gifted  with  so  quick  an  eye  for  the 
ridiculous. 

GowER.  Delightful  reading,  those  racy  pages  of  his,  running 
over  with  quaint  fancies. 

Atherton.  More's  position  as  regards  mysticism  is,  in  the 
main,  that  of  a  comprehensive  and  judicial  mind.  He  goes  a 
considerable  distance  with  the  enthusiast, — for  he  believes 
that  love  for  the  supreme  Beautiful  and  Good  may  well  carry 
men  out  of  themselves  ;  but  for  fanatical  presumption  he  has 
no  mercy.  ^ 

1  Let  the  reader  consult  his  Enthn-  high-flyers  of  his  day,  there  appear  to 

siasmus    Triiiniphatus,    or    read    his  have  been  some  who  spoke  of  being 

caustic  observations  upon  the  ^«/;//a  'godded   with   God,'   and     '  Christed 

Rlagica  Abscotidiia,   and   his  Second  with  Christ,' much  after  the  manner  of 

Lash  of  Alazonomastix.    Among  the  some  of  Eckart's  followers. 


3i6  Mysticism  in  England.  [d.  xl 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  Romanist  type  of  mysticism  would  be  the 
most  repugnant  of  all,  I  should  think,  to  these  somewhat  free- 
tliinking  English  scholars. 

Atherton.  So  I  have  found.  More  has  no  notion  of  pro- 
fessing to  give  up  his  reason,  like  Poiret ;  still  less  of  awaiting 
a  suspension  of  our  powers,  like  John  of  the  Cross.  He  be- 
lieves that  '  the  Spirit  doth  accomplish  and  enlarge  our  humane 
faculties.''^ 

GowER.  Yet  Norris  is  less  remote  than  More  from  the  Romi;h 
mysticism,  is  he  not  ?  I  mean  that  his  Platonism  seemed  to 
me  a  little  more  monastic,  and  less  philosophical. 

Atherton.  He  has,  it  must  be  confessed,  his  four  gradations 
of  love — akin  to  the  class-religion  of  the  Romish  Church  ; — as 
though  a  certain  degree  were  incumbent  on  all  Christians,  but 
higher  stages  of  devout  affection  (above  mere  duty)  were  set 
before  the  eminently  religious.^  Yet  let  us  do  full  justice  to 
the  good  sense  of  that  excellent  man.  The  Quietist  doctrine  of 
unconsciousness  appears  to  him  an  unnatural  refinement.  He 
cannot  conceive  how  it  should  be  expected  that  a  man  was  to 
be  '  such  an  America  to  himself,'  as  not  to  know  what  his  own 
wishes  and  attainments  are.  The  infused  virtue  of  the  Spanish 
mystics  appears  to  his  discriminating  eye  '  as  great  a  paradox 
in  divinitv,  as  occult  quahties  in  philosophy.* 

WiLLOUGHBY.  And  none  of  them,  I  think,  distress  them- 
selves, as  did  Pension,  about  purely  disinterested  love. 

Atherton.  They  are  too  close  followers  of  Plato  to  do  that. 
They  do  not  disguise  their  impatience  of  the  bodily  prison- 

"  'But  now  seeing  the  Z(9^(7j  or  steady  and  reasons  of  tliins^s  themselves.'— 

comprehensive    wisdom    of    God,    in  'PTt{aKClo  iheConJci-iiira  Cabbalistica. 

which  all  Ideas  and  their  respects  are  ^  See  Norris's  Miscellanies  (1699)  ; 

contained,  is  \>\x\.  miiversal  stable  rea-  An  Idea  of  Happiness  :  ciujiiiring 

son,  how  can  there  be  any  pretence  of  wherein  the  greatest  happiness  attain- 

being  so  highly  inspired  as  to  be  blown  able  by  Man  in  this  Life  does  consist, 

above   reason   itself,  imlesse  men  will  pp.  326-341. 

fancy  themselves  wiser  than  God,  or  ^  iV//j«//i;w/«,  p.  276  (in a  Discourse 

their  understandings  above  the  natures  on  Rom.  xii.  3),  and  p.  334. 


2] 


Alorc  on  Quakerism. 


317 


house.  Neither  have  they  any  love  for  the  divine  ignorance  and 
holy  darkness  of  Dionysius.  They  are  eager  to  catch  every  ray 
of  knowledge — to  know  and  to  rejoice,  to  the  utmost  that  our 
mortality  may,  upon  its  heavenward  pilgrimage.* 

•  Xorris  says,  in  liis  Hymn  to  Darkness — 

'  The  blest  above  do  thy  sweet  umbrage  prize, 
When  cloyed  with  light,  they  veil  their  eyes. 
The  vision  of  the  Deity  is  made 
More  sweet  and  beatific  by  thy  shade. 
But  we  poor  tenants  of  this  orb  below 
Don't  here  thy  excellencies  know, 
Till  death  our  understandings  does  improve, 
And  then  our  wiser  ghosts  thy  silent  night-walks  love.' 


In  the  wTilings  of  Henry  More  we 
can  see,  by  a  notice  here  and  there, 
how  Quakerism  looked  in  the  eyes  of  a 
retired  scholar,  by  no  means  indis- 
criminately adverse  to  enthusiasm.  The 
word  enthusiasm  itself,  he  always  uses 
more  in  the  classical  than  the  modern 
sense.  '  To  tell  you  my  opinion  of 
that  sect  which  are  called  Quakers, 
thougli  I  must  allow  that  there  may  be 
some  amongst  tb^m  good  and  sincere- 
hearted  men,  an^-i  it  may  be  nearer  to 
the  purity  of  Christianity  for  the  life 
and  power  of  it  than  lujny  others,  yet 
I  am  well  assured  that  the  generality 
of  them  are  prodigiously  mclancholv, 
and  some  few  perhaps  possessed  with 


the  devil.'  He  thinks  their  doctriae 
highly  dangerous,  as  mingling  with  so 
many  good  and  wholesome  things  an 
abominable  '  slighting  of  the  history 
of  Christ,  and  making  a  mere  allegory 
of  it,— tending  to  the  utter  overthrow 
of  that  warrantable  though  more  ex- 
ternal frame  of  Christianity  which 
Scripture  itself  points  out  to  us.'  Yet 
he  takes  wise  occasion,  from  the  very 
existence  of  such  a  sect,  to  bid  us  all 
look  at  home,  and  s^e  that  we  do  not 
content  ourselves  v/ith  the  mere  Taber- 
nacle without  the  Presence  and  Power 
of  God  therein. — Mastix,  his  Letter  to 
a  Friend,  p.  306. 


BOOK    THE    TWELFTH 


EMANUEL  SVVJ'DENBORG 


Chapter  t. 

What  if  cnrth 
Be  but  the  shadow  of  heaven,  and  tilings  therein 
Eacli  to  other  like,  more  than  on  earth  is  thouglit. 

Milton. 

T  T  ERE  follow  extracts  from  a  section  in  Atherton"s  Note- 
book,  entitled  '  Remarks  on  Swedenborg.' 

The  doctrine  of  Correspondence  is  the  central  idea  of 
Swedenborg's  system.  Ever3thing  visible  has  belonging  to  it 
an  appropriate  spiritual  reality.  The  history  of  man  is  an  acted 
parable ;  the  universe,  a  temple  covered  with  hieroglyphics. 
Behmen,  from  the  light  which  flashes  on  certain  exalted  mo- 
ments, imagines  that  he  receives  the  key  to  these  hidden  signi- 
ficances,— that  he  can  interpret  the  Siguatura  Rcrum.  But  he 
does  not  see  spirits,  or  talk  with  angels.  According  to  him, 
such  communications  would  be  less  reliable  than  the  intuition 
he  enjoyed.  Swedenborg  takes  opposite  ground.  '  What  I 
relate,'  he  would  say,  '  comes  from  no'  such  mere  inward  per- 
suasion, I  recount  the  things  I  have  seen.  I  do  not  labour 
to  recall  and  to  express  the  manifestation  made  me  in  some 
moment  of  ecstatic  exaltation.  I  write  you  down  a  plain  state- 
ment of  journeys  and  conversations  in  the  spiritual  world, 
which  have  made  the  greater  part  of  my  daily  history  for  many 
years  together.  I  take  my  stand  upon  experience.  I  have 
proceeded  by  observation  and  induction  as  strict  as  that  of  any 
man  of  science  among  you.  Only  it  has  been  given  me  to 
enjoy  an  experience  reaching  into  two  worlds — that  of  spirit, 
as  well  as  that  of  matter.' 

A  mysticism  like  that  of  Tauler  strives,  and  strives  in  vain, 
to  escape  all  image  and  'figuration,'     A  mysticism  like  that  of 

VOL,  II.  y 


322  Emanuel  Szvedenborg.  [b.  xii. 

Swedenboig  clothes  every  spiritual  truth  in  some  substantial 
envelope,  and  discerns  a  habitant  spirit  in  every  variety  of  form. 
The  follower  of  Plato  essays  to  rise  from  the  visible  to  the  in- 
visible. But  he  spurns  each  ladder  in  succession  by  which  he 
has  ascended.  The  follower  of  Swedenborg  seeks  a  similar 
ascent ;  but  he  never  flings  away,  as  common,  the  husk  which 
guards  the  precious  spiritual  kernel.  He  will  not  shun  the 
material,  or  diminish  his  relations  to  it.  Rather  will  he  sur- 
round himself  by  those  objects  and  those  ties  of  earth  which, 
spiritually  regarded,  speak  constantly  of  heaven.  To  look  thus 
on  life,  I  need  not  enter  the  school  of  Swedenborg. 

But  in  this  freedom  from  asceticism, — this  tendency  to  see 
the  spiritual,  not  beyond,  but  in,  the  natural, — the  mysticism  of 
Swedenborg,  like  that  of  Behmen,  has  advanced  far  beyond  its 
mediaeval  type.  Religion  no  longer  plays  the  despot  toward 
science ;  the  flesh  is  no  longer  evil ;  this  beautiful  world  no 
longer  yielded  over  to  that  father  of  lies  who  called  it  his. 

As  regards  the  scriptures,  I  find  Swedenborg  less  one-sided 
than  mystics  like  Frank,  Weigel,  or  the  more  extreme  among 
the  Quakers.  He  displays  no  inclination  to  depreciate  the 
letter  of  scripture  in  favour  of  the  inward  teaching  of  the  Word. 
Without  this  *  book-revelation,'  he  tell  us,  man  would  have 
remained  in  gross  ignorance  concerning  his  Maker  and  his 
future  destinies.  The  literal  sense  of  the  word  is  the  basis  of 
the  spiritual  and  celestial  sense  ;  and  the  word,  for  this  very 
reason,  holy  in  every  syllable.  He  sets  up  no  doctrine  based 
on  arbitrary  or  fantastical  interpretations.  His  doctrinal  system 
is  drawn  from  the  literal  sense,  and  calmly,  if  not  always  satis- 
factorily deduced,  by  citation,  exegesis,  and  comparison  of 
passages,  without  any  mysticism  whatever.  Thus  the  balance 
between  the  letter  and  the  spirit  is  maintained  in  his  theology 
with  a  fairness  almost  unparalleled  in  the  history  of  mysticism.* 
'  See  Swedenborg's  True  Christian  Religion,  chap.  iv. 


c.  I.]  Correspondences.  323 

According  to  Swedenborg,  all  the  mythology  and  the  sym- 
bolisms of  ancient  times  were  so  many  refracted  or  fragmentary 
correspondences — relics  of  that  better  day  when  every  outward 
object  suggested  to  man's  mind  its  appropriate  divine  truth. 
Such  desultory  and  uncertain  links  between  the  seen  and  the 
unseen  are  so  many  imperfect  attempts  toward  that  harmony  of 
tlie  two  worlds  which  he  believed  himself  commissioned  to 
reveal.  The  happy  thoughts  of  the  artist,  the  imaginative 
analogies  of  the  poet,  are  exchanged  with  Swedenborg  for  an 
elaborate  system.  All  the  terms  and  objects  in  the  natural  and 
spiritual  worlds  are  catalogued  in  pairs.  This  method  appears 
so  much  formal  pedantry.  Our  fancies  will  not  work  to  order. 
The  meaning  and  the  life  with  which  we  continually  inform 
outward  objects, — those  suggestions  from  sight  and  sound, 
which  make  almost  every  man  at  times  a  poet, — are  our  own 
creations,  are  determined  by  the  mood  of  the  hour,  cannot  be 
imposed  from  without,  cannot  be  arranged  like  the  nomen- 
clature of  a  science.  As  regards  the  inner  sense  of  scripture,  at 
all  events,  Swedenborg  introduces  some  such  yoke.  In  that 
province,  however,  it  is  perhaps  as  well  that  those  who  are  not 
satisfied  with  the  obvious  sense  should  find  some  restraint  for 
their  imagination,  some  method  for  their  ingenuity,  some 
guidance  in  a  curiosity  irresistible  to  a  certain  class  of  minds. 
If  an  objector  say,  '  I  do  not  see  why  the  ass  should  correspond 
to  scientific  truth,  and  the  horse  to  intellectual  truth,'  Sweden- 
borg will  reply,  '  This  analogy  rests  on  no  fancy  of  mine,  but 
on  actual  experience  and  observation  in  the  spiritual  world.  I 
have  always  seen  horses  and  asses  present  and  circumstanced, 
when,  and  according  as,  those  inward  ([uaHties  were  central." 
But  I  do  not  believe  that  it  was  the  design  of  Swedenborg 
rigidly  to  determine  the  relationships  by  which  men  are  con- 

^  See  E.  S'cceJcnborg,  a  Biography,      and  the  best  introduction  to  his   writ* 
by  J.  G.  Wilkinson,  p.  99  ;  a  succinct      ings  I  have  met  with, 
and  well-written  account  of  the  man, 

V  2 


3^4  Rmattuel  Swedelihorg.  [b. 


tinually  uniting  the  seen  and  unseen  worlds.  He  probably  con- 
ceived it  his  mission  to  disclose  to  men  the  divinely-ordered 
correspondences  of  scripture,  the  close  relationship  of  man's 
several  states  of  being,  and  to  make  mankind  more  fully  aware 
that  matter  and  spirit  were  associated,  not  only  in  the  varying 
analogies  of  imagination,  but  by  the  deeper  affinity  of  eternal 
law.  In  this  way,  he  sought  to  impart  an  impulse  rather  than 
to  prescribe  a  scheme.  His  consistent  followers  will  acknow- 
ledge that  had  he  lived  in  another  age,  and  occupied  a  different 
social  position,  the  forms  under  which  the  spiritual  world  pre- 
sented itself  to  him  would  have  been  different.  To  a  large 
extent,  therefore,  his  Memorable  Relations  must  be  regarded  as 
true  for  him  only, — for  such  a  character,  in  such  a  day,  though 
containing  principles  independent  of  personal  peculiarity  and 
local  colouring.  It  would  have  been  indeed  inconsistent,  had 
the  Protestant  who  (as  himself  a  Reformer)  essayed  to  supply 
the  defects  and  correct  the  errors  of  the  Reformation, — had  he 
designed  to  prohibit  all  advance  beyond  his  own  position. 

There  is  great  depth  and  beauty  in  that  idea  of  Dante's, 
according  to  which  he  represents  himself  as  conscious  of  ascend- 
ing from  heaven  to  heaven  in  Paradise,  not  by  perception  of  a 
transit  through  space,  but  by  seeing  his  Beatrice  grow  more 
and  more  lovely  : — 

To  non  m'accorsi  del  salire  in  ella ; 
Ma  d'esserv'  entro  mi  fece  assai  fede 
La  donna  mia  ch'  io  vidi  far  piii  bella. 

What  is  an  imagination  with  Dante,  acquires,  in  the  theo- 
sophy  of  Swedenborg,  the  constancy  of  law.  According  to  him, 
the  more  I  have  of  goodness  in  me,  the  more  shall  I  discern  of 
the  loveliness  belonging  to  the  form  of  a  good  angel.  If  I  am 
evil,  the  hideous  forms  of  evil  natures  will  not  be  repulsive  to 
me  ;  and  if  I  were  placed  in  heaven,  the  glory  v/ould  afflict  me 
with  pain.     To  three  persons,  in  three  different  states  of  holi- 


c.  f.]  The  Inivard  fonns  tJie  Outivard.  325 

ness  and  knowledge,  a  fourth  would  present  three  several  aspects 
in  the  spiritual  world.  Thus,  spirits  see  as  they  themselves 
are  ;  their  character  modifies  their  vision  ;  their  nature  creates 
for  them  their  world.  All  this  seems  so  much  mere  idealism, 
extended  from  this  life  into  the  next.  I  ask,  Where  is  the  f 
absolute  truth,  then  ?  My  German  neighbour  quietly  inquires,  > 
'  Is  there,  or  is  there  not,  any  Ding  a?i  sich  T  The  Sweden- 
borgian  replies,  'Swedenborg  is  no  idealist,  as  you  suspect.  The 
absolute  truth  is  with  God  ;  and  the  more  goodness  and  wisdom 
the  creatures  have  from  him,  the  more  truly  do  they  see.  The 
reality  external  to  self,  I  do  not  take  away ;  yea,  rather  I  esta- 
bhsh  it  on  a  divine  basis.  For  the  reality  is  even  this  divine 
order,  which  the  Omniscient  hath  established  and  maintains, — 
that  form  and  vision  shall  answer  exactly  to  spirit  and  insight. 
Such  correspondence  is  but  partial  in  this  masquerading  world 
of  ours,  so  full  of  polite  pretences  and  seemly  forms.  But  in 
the  spiritual  world  every  one  appears  by  degrees  only  Avhat  he 
is.  He  gravitates  towards  that  circle  or  association  of  spirits 
where  all  see  as  much  as  he  does.  His  character  is  written, 
past  all  disguise,  in  his  form ;  and  so  '  the  things  spoken  in  the 
ear  in  closets  are  proclaimed  upon  the  housetops.' 

Humanity  stands  high  with  Behmen,  higher  yet  with  Sweden- 
borg. The  Divine  Humanity  is  at  once  the  Lord  and  pattern 
of  all  creation.  The  innumerable  worlds  of  space  are  arranged 
after  the  human  form.  The  universe  is  a  kind  of  constellation 
Homo.  Every  spirit  belongs  to  some  province  in  Swedenborg's 
*  Grand  Man,'  and  affects  the  correspondent  part  of  the  human 
body.  A  spirit  dwelling  in  those  parts  of  the  universe  which 
answer  to  the  heart  or  the  liver,  makes  his  influx  felt  in  the 
cardiac  or  hef)atic  regions  of  Swedenborg's  frame  before  he 
becomes  visible  to  the  eye.  Evil  spirits,  again,  produced  their 
correspondent  maladies  on  his  system,  during  the  time  of  his 
intercourse  with  them.     Hypocrites   gave  him    a  pain  in  the 


326  Emanuel  Sivcdcnborg.  [b.  xu. 

teeth,  because  hypocrisy  is  spiritual  toothache.  The  inhabitants 
of  Mercury  correspond  to  a  province  of  memory  in  the  '  grand 
man  :'  the  Lunarians  to  the  ensiform  cartilage  at  the  bottom  of 
the  breast-bone.  With  Swedenborg  likeness  is  proximity  :  space 
and  time  are  states  of  love  and  thought.  Hence  his  journeys 
from  world  to  world  ; — passing  through  states  being  equivalent 
to  travelling  over  spaces.  Thus  it  took  him  ten  hours  to  reach 
one  planet,  while  at  another  he  arrived  in  two,  because  a  longer 
me  was  required  to  approximate  the  state  of  his  mind  to  that 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  former."' 

The  thoughts  of  Swedenborg  have  never  to  struggle  for  ex- 
pression, like  those  of  the  half-educated  Belimen.  The  mind  of 
the  Swedish  seer  was  of  the  methodical  and  scientific  cast.  His 
style  is  calm  and  clear.  He  is  easily  understood  in  detail. 
The  metaphors  of  poets  are  objects  of  vision  with  him  ;  every 
abstraction  takes  some  concrete  form  :  his  illustrations  are  in- 
cessant. He  describes  with  the  graphic  minuteness  of  Defoe. 
Nothing  is  lost  in  cloud.  With  a  distinct  and  steady  outline 
he  pourtrays,  to  the  smallest  circumstance,  the  habitations,  the 
amusements,  the  occupations,  tlie  penalties,  the  economy,  the 
marriages  of  the  unseen  world.  He  is  never  amazed,  he  never 
exaggerates.  He  is  unimpassioned,  and  wholly  careless  of  effect. 
Those  of  his  followers  with  whom  I  have  come  in  contact,  par- 
take of  their  master's  philosophy.  They  are  liberal  in  spirit, 
and  nowise  impatient  of  unbelief  in  others.  Swedenborg  never 
pants  and  strives — has  none  of  the  tearful  vehemence  and  glow- 
ing emotion  which  choke  the  utterance  of  Behmen.  He  is 
never  familiar  in  this  page,  and  rhapsodical  in  that.  Always 
serene,  this  imperturbable  philosopher  is  the  Olympian  Jove  of 
mystics.  He  writes  like  a  man  who  was  sufficient  to  himself;  who 
could  afford  to  wait.  He  lived  much  alone;  and  strong  and  deep 
is  the  stream  of  this  mysticism  which  carries  no  fleck  of  foam. 

■*  Wilkinson,  pp.  187,  118, 


CI.]  Comparison  zuith  other  Mystics.  327 

Other  mystics  seem  to  know  times  of  wavering,  when  enthu- 
siasm burns  low.  To  Swedenborg  sunrise  and  sunset  are  not 
more  constant  and  familiar  than  the  divine  mission  which  he 
claims.  Other  mystics  are  overpowered  by  manifestations  from 
the  unseen  world.  Horror  seizes  them,  or  a  dizzy  joy,  or  the 
vision  leaves  them  faint  and  trembling.  They  have  their  alter- 
nations ;  their  lights  and  shadows  are  in  keeping ;  they  will 
topple  headlong  from  some  sunny  pinnacle  into  an  abysmal 
misery.  But  Swedenborg  is  '  in  the  spirit'  for  near  two  score 
years,  and  in  his  easy  cliair,  or  at  his  window,  or  on  his  walks, 
holds  converse,  as  a  matter  of  course,  with  angels  and  departed 
great  ones,  with  patriarchs  and  devils.  He  can  even  instruct 
some  of  the  angels,  who  have  had  experience  only  ot  their  own 
world,  and  are  guileless  accordingly. 


CHAPTER  II. 

We  liavL'  but  faith  :   we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 

And  )et  we  trust  it  comes  from  Thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  know  ledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 

But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell  ; 

That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 
May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster. 

Tennyson', 

T  FIND  Sweden] lorg,  in  the  midst  of  his  spiritual  inter- 
views and  volumino'js  authorship,  taking  his  part  for  some 
time  in  the  Diet  of  17O1,  and  presenting  three  memorials  with 
high  repute  for  practical  sagacity.  He  publishes  ^A  New 
Method  of  finding  ihe  Longitude,'  simultaneously  with  the 
'  Apocalypse  Jieveahd.' 

He  appears  to  have  possessed  a  remarkable  power  of  inward 
respiration.  He  says  that  he  received  from  the  Lord  a  con- 
formation enabling  him  to  breathe  inwardly  for  a  long  time, 
without  the  aid  of  the  external  air,  while  his  outward  senses 
continued  their  operation.' 

Swedenborg  is  strongly  opposed  to  ascetic  practice  in  every 
f  jrm.  He  contradicts  all  the  cloistered  contemplative  mystics, 
■\\  hen  he  declares  that  '  man  cannot  be  formed  for  heaven  ex- 
cept by  means  of  the  world.'  He  represents  the  'religious,' 
and  devotees  who  have  renounced  the  world  for  pious  medita- 
tion, as  by  no  means  agreeable  or  enviable  personages  in  the 
other  life.  They  are  of  a  sorrowful  temper,  despising  others, 
discontented  at  not  having  been  honoured  with  superior  happi- 

'  Wilkinson,  pp.  79,  130. 


2.]  Sivedeiiborgs '  Christian  Religion.  329 


ness,  selfish,  turning  away  from  offices  of  charity  (the  very 
means  of  conjunction  with  heaven),  soon  betaking  themselves 
,to  solitary  places.  Truly,  many  of  the  first  in  the  heaven  of 
the  Romish  calendar  are  the  last  in  the  heaven  of  Swedenborg. 
And  I  doubt  not  that  his  arrangement  is,  in  such  cases,  the 
more  near  the  truth  of  the  two.  For,  as  he  justly  says,  *a  Hfe 
of  charity  towards  our  neighbour  (which  consists  in  doing  what 
is  just  and  right  in  every  employment)  can  only  be  exercised 
in  general  as  man  is  engaged  in  some  employment.'  Such  a 
life,  he  declares,  tends  heavenward,— not  so  a  life  of  piety  with- 
out a  life  of  charity." 

'  In  heaven,'  says  Swedenborg,  '  instruction  is  committed,  not 
to  memory,  but  to  life ;"— a  goodly  saying. 

Swedenborg's  '  Christian  Religion'  is  a  system  of  theology, 
calm  and  orderly  throughout,  illustrated  with  plates— the 
Memorable  Relations.  I  interpret  these  marvellous  narratives 
much  as  Swedenborg  does  the  Mosaic  record.  I  do  not  ques- 
tion their  historic  truth,  for  Swedenborg.  Such  things  he  saw 
and  heard ;  for  to  such  a  mind  all  abstraction  takes  substantial 
form.  His  mental  transitions  are  journeys.  Every  proposition 
has  its  appropriate  scenery  ;  every  group  of  verities  incorporates 
itself  in  a  drama,  and  becomes  a  speech  and  action.  But  I  put 
an  inner  sense  into  these  Relations,  and  so  reading  them,  find 
charming  allegories,  just  in  moral  and  elegant  in  style. 

What  Swedenborg  tells  us  about  a  future  state  I  am  certainly 
not  in  a  position  to  contradict,  for  I  know  nothing  about  such 
matters.  The  general  conviction  of  the  Christian  world  seems 
to  me  true  in  the  main,— that  the  silence  of  the  scriptures  con- 
cerning such  details  is  an  argument  for  their  inspiration— was 
wisely  designed  to  check  curiosity  and  to  exercise  faith.  Yet  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  after  all  Swedenborg's  disclosures,  the 
Christian  conflict,  and  the  motives  to  that  holy  warfare,  remain 

'   ^leaven  and  Hell,  §  360, 


3  ?0  Eviamiel  Stvedenborg.  [b.  xn. 

very  much  as  the  Bible  presents  them.  Selfishness  is  still  the 
root  of  evil ;  God  the  sole  foundation  of  truth  and  goodness  ; 
faith  alone,  working  by  love,  can  overcome  the  world.  If  the 
arrangements  he  relates  as  finding  place  in  heaven  and  hell,  be 
regarded  as  the  unconscious  creation  of  his  own  brain,  an  extra- 
ordinary genius  for  legislature  must  be  allowed  him  by  all. 
There  is  generally  an  obvious  fitness  in  the  economy  he  describes. 
Here  and  there  he  is  whimsical  and  Quevedo-like.  Sometimes 
a  certain  grim  satire  peeps  out.  As  regards  individuals,  we 
suspect  prejudice  or  caprice.  He  represents  Melanchthon  as 
faring  but  poorly,  for  a  long  time,  in  the  other  world,  because 
he  would  not  let  go  his  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith.  He 
elevates  Mahomet  in  his  heaven,  and  lowers  Paul.  Who  does 
not  think  of  Dante,  carrying  the  feud  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline 
beyond  the  grave?'' 

It  shocks  such  preconceived  ideas  as  we  may  most  of  us  have 
formed  concerning  heaven,  to  find  it  represented  as  so  like 
earth.  That  in  the  spiritual  world  there  should  be  towns  and 
cities,  gymnasia  and  theological  discussions,  sermons  and  book- 
writing,  courts  of  law,  and  games,  yea  marriage,  of  a  refined 
species,  the  progeny  whereof  are  inward  joys  and  virtues; — all 
this  is  novel.*  Our  notions  here  are  mostly  taken  from  Milton, 
and  his,  in  considerable  measure,  from  ecclesiastical  and  scho- 
lastic tradition.  After  the  sublimity  of  the  poet,  the  homely 
circumstantialities  of  the  theosophist  appear  cruelly  prosaic. 
Yet  Swedenborg's  view  of  the  future  state  may  be  regarded  as, 
in  many  respects,  a  wholesome  corrective  to  the  popular  con- 
ception. The  truth,  I  should  dimly  surmise,  may  lie  between 
the  two.  The  general  apprehension  does  perhaps  make  the 
transition  at  death  too  abrupt;    forgets  too  much  the  great 

^  True  Christian  Religion,  §  796.  Heaven   a?td  Hell,   §§  183,  221,   387. 

■•  See  the  description  of  the  heavenly  True  Christian  Religion,  §§  694,  697. 

palaces,  of  divine  worship  in  heaven,  Also  concerning  marriages  in  heaven, 

Bnd    of    the    angelic     employments,  Heaven  and  Hell,  f§  366-386.. 


.]  The  Celestial  World. 


variety  of  degrees  and  societies  of  spirits  which  must  dis- 
tinguish the  inhabitants  of  hell  and  heaven, — how  completely 
fhe  inward  tendency  will  make  the  grief  or  the  joy, — how  little 
mere  change  of  scene  and  mode  of  existence  can  constitute  the 
bliss  or  woe, — and  how  various  must  be  the  occupations  and 
enjoyments  of  a  world  which  is  to  consummate,  not  our  adora- 
tion merely,  but  active  love  and  knowledge. 

Very  beautiful  is  Swedenborg's  description  of  infants  in 
heaven,  and  the  instruction  they  receive  '  from  angels  of  the 
female  sex,  who  in  the  life  of  the  body,  loved  infants  tenderly, 
and  at  the  same  time  loved  God.'^ 

Even  wicked  men,  immediately  after  death,  are  kindly  re- 
ceived by  good  angels — such  mercy  is  there  for  our  poor  mor- 
taUty  at  the  last  trying  hour.  But  the  evil  nature  of  such 
persons  soon  resumes  its  former  ascendancy.  The  society  of 
those  pure  associates  grows  irksome,  and  is  forsaken  by  the 
sinful  for  evil  companionship  similar  to  themselves. 

Swedenborg  cannot  be  considered  mystical  in  his  doctrine  con- 
cerning spiritual  influence — that  customary  seat  of  mysticism. 
Such  influence  he  pronounces  immediate  on  the  divine  part, 
but  not  perceptible  on  ours,  nor  such  as  to  exclude  the  neces- 
sity of  instruction  and  the  use  of  meo.ns.  The  good  we  do, 
God  alone  worketh  in  us ;  but  we  are  conscious  only  of  effort 
on  our  own  part,  though  believing  that  we  receive  divine 
assistance.  There  is  to  be  no  tarrying,  he  says,  for  magical 
grace;  no  crying  *  Wash  me !' while  the  divinely  given  means 
of  purification  lie  unused  at  our  side.  The  proprinm,  or  own- 
hood  of  every  angel,  spirit,  or  man,  is  only  evil.  (All  angels 
and  devils  were  once  good  and  bad  men.)  To  live  only  from 
Ciod  and  not  from  self,  is  the  true  purity.  Every  man  is  an 
organ  of  life,  deriving  his  life  and  free-will  from  God,  and 
receptive  of  the  Divine  influx — enjoying  more  or  less,  as  he 
^  Heaven  and  Hell,  §§  329-345. 


332  EDiauHcl  Swedcnborg.  [c.  xn. 

opens  or  closes  his  nature  thereto.  If  the  lower  regions  of  his 
spiritual  nature  be  closed  against  this  influx,  God  is  still  in 
him,  but  he  is  not  in  God." 

Swedenborg  declares  that  the  Church  has  been  corrupted  by 
the  doctrine  of  three  divine  persons  existing  from  eternity.  He 
maintains  that  such  a  belief  must  in  reality  involve  the  concep- 
tion of  three  several  gods,  however  loudly  those  who  hold  it 
may  profess  to  acknowledge  the  Divine  Unity.  In  his  theology, 
the  Father,  St)n,  and  Spirit,  are  '  the  three  essentials  of  one 
God,  which  make  One,  like  Soul,  Body,  and  Operation  in  man.' 

The  doctrine  of  Swedenborg  concerning  the  work  of  Christ 
appears  to  have  received  its  peculiar  complexion,  at  least  in 
great  measure,  from  his  repugnance  to  Calvinism.  He  saw  that 
the  theology  of  the  Reformation  had  unduly  elaborated  into 
doctrine,  the  forensic  and  pecuniary  metaphors  of  Scripture, 
concerning  justification  and  redemption.  In  his  reaction,  he 
is  too  much  inclined  to  give  to  those  figures  a  meaning  con- 
siderably short  of  that  which  a  consistent  interpretation  must 
assign  them.  Yet  the  results  at  which  he  arrives  are  not  so 
decidedly  opposed  to  those  reached  by  the  theology  usually 
termed  evangelical,  as  might  have  been  anticipated.  But  the 
process  of  redemption  in  Swedenborg's  system  differs  widely. 
He  says  he  cannot  believe  that  the  Father,  in  his  wrath,  con- 
demned the  human  race,  and  in  his  mercy  sent  his  Son  to  bear 
their  curse ;  that  out  of  love  for  his  suffering  Son  he  cancelled 
the  sentence  of  damnation,  yet  only  in  favour  of  those  for 
whom  the  Son  should  intercede,  who  was  thus  to  be  a  per- 
petual Mediator  in  the  presence  of  the  Father.''  He  declares 
it  a  fundamental  error  of  the  Church  to  believe  the  passion  of 

fi  True  Christian  Religion,  ch3.Y>.\'\.  dally  §§  132-135,  where  he  represents 

6,  7  ;    Heaven  and  Hell,  §  592.  himself  as  correcting  the  false  doctrine 

7   True  Christian  Religion,  chap.  ii.  of  certain   spirits  in  the  other  world 

1-7.    I  give  here  Swedenborg's  idea  of  concerning  the  Divine  Nature, 
the  evangelical  theology.     See  espe- 


c.  II.]  The  Work  of  Christ.  333 

the  Cross  to  be  redemption  itself.  He  pronounces  imputed 
righteousness  a  subversion  of  the  divine  order. — So  much  for 
what  he  denies.  On  the  other  hand,  he  affirms  that  in  the 
fulness  of  time,  Jehovah  assumed  humanity  to  redeem  and 
save  mankind.  Both  in  the  spiritual  regions  and  among  men, 
evil  had  been  gradually  outgrowing  and  threatening  to  over- 
power good.  The  equilibrium  between  the  heavenly  and 
hellish  worlds  was  lost.  It  was  as  though  a  dyke  had  been 
broken  down,  and  sin  were  about  to  overflow  the  universe. 
Then  God  took  to  himself  our  nature,  to  subjugate  the  hells 
and  to  restore  to  order  the  heavens.  Every  victory  gained  by 
Christ  over  the  temptations  which  assailed  Him,  distanced  and 
enfeebled  the  powers  of  evil  everywhere.  It  was  the  driving 
back  of  ravenous  beasts  to  their  dens, — the  delivery  and  feed- 
ing of  his  flock,  both  men  and  angels.  This  victory  of  the 
Saviour  is  our  victory,  is  that  redemption  in  virtue  of  which 
we  are  able,  believing  in  Him,  to  resist  and  vanquish  evil. 
Mediation,  Intercession,  Atonement,  Propitiation,  are  forms 
of  speech  'expressive  of  the  approach  which  is  opened  to 
God,  and  of  the  grace  communicated  from  God,  by 
means  of  His  Humanity.'  Thus  Swedenborg  also  believes  in 
a  violated  order  and  an  impending  perdition ;  in  the  redemp- 
tion of  the  race  from  such  a  fate  by  the  incarnate  One  ;  in  the 
vindication  or  restoration  of  the  divine  law  and  order  by  his  con- 
flict and  victory  on  our  behalf;  and  in  a  life  lived /7r  us,  which 
becomes  also  a  life  quickened  in  us.  He  appears  to  object 
to  the  idea  of  sacrifice  as  necessarily  concentrating  the  work  of 
redemption  in  the  shedding  of  the  Saviour's  blood.  Such  may 
have  been  the  limited  conception  of  sacrifice  in  the  theology 
he  opposed ;  but  that  error  could  be  no  good  reason  for 
explaining  away  the  idea  of  sacrifice  altogether.  The  language 
of  Christ  concerning  himself  must  be  strangely  misinterpreted 
if  no  such  idea  is  to  be  found  there.     But  tliat  sacrifice  was 


334  Eniamiel  Swedenhorg.  [b.  7:n. 


constituted  by  his  whole  life,  as  well  as  by  its  last  act — the 
laying  down  thereof.  The  distinction  drawn  by  some  divines 
between  the  active  and  passive  obedience — as  though  the  death 
alone  were  our  atonement,  and  the  life  alone  our  example — is 
a  most  unhappy  refinement. 

In  Swedenborg's  doctrine  concerning  union  with  Christ 
there  is  nothing  mystical.  From  the  passionate  and  sensuous 
union  of  some  mystics,  and  from  the  pantheistic  confusion  of 
others,  he  is  completely  free. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  work  of  redemption  should 
still  be  so  partially  regarded  by  opposing  sections  of  the 
Church.  On  the  one  side  are  those  who  hold  the  doctrine  of 
an  exact  satisfaction  (the  commercial  theory) ;  who  suppose 
that,  in  virtue  of  imputed  righteousness,  God  sees  in  his  people 
no  sin ;  and  who  would  say  that  men  may,  rather  than  that 
they  must,  be  exhorted  to  maintain  good  works.  This  covert 
and  generally  theoretical  antinomianism  is  happily  rare.  Yet 
there  are  some  well-meaning  men,  desirous  of  doing  a  reform- 
ing work  among  us,  who  actually  imagine  such  an  extreme  as 
this  to  be  the  ordinary  evangelical  doctrine.  On  the  other 
side  are  those  whose  tendency  is  to  resolve  the  historical  into 
the  inward  Christ.  From  any  such  leaning  Swedenborg  is 
more  free  than  George  Fox.  On  this  side,  too,  stand  those 
with  whom  Christ's  work  is  rather  a  first  sample  of  restored 
humanity  than  the  way  of  restoration,  and  who  seem  to  sup- 
pose that  in  admitting  God  to  be  just,  they  make  Him  cruel. 
In  this  extreme  aversion  to  acknowledge  an  external  law,  and 
an  external  danger  consequent  on  its  violation,  Sweden- 
borg does  not  share.  But,  like  most  of  the  mystics,  he  con- 
ceives of  redemption  as  wrought  for  us  only  as  it  is  wrought  in 
VIS ;  takes  justification  for  granted,  if  we  have  but  sanctifica- 
tion ;  and  regards  our  sins  as  remitted  just  in  proportion  as  we 
are  reclaimed  from  them.     If  we  must  lean  towards  some  ex- 


c.  II.]  TJic  Church  of  the  New  Jenisalcni.  335 

treme,  this  is  the  more  safe,  because  containijig  the  larger 
measure  of  truth.  It  appears  to  me  that  the  '  divine  order' 
requires  that  man  be  accepted  of  God  in  a  way  consistent  with 
tlie  divine  righteousness  ;  and  so  also  as,  at  the  very  same 
time,  to  become  contbrmed  to  that  righteousness.  The  sacred 
writers  constantly  combine  those  two  aspects  of  redemption 
which  our  systems  are  so  prone  to  separate.  On  the  one  side, 
Christ's  example  is  pressed  upon  us,  even  in  those  very  acts 
which  are  peculiar  to  Himself  as  divine.  On  the  other,  the 
blood  of  Christ  is  represented  as  sanctifying  us — purging  our 
consciences  from  dead  works  to  serve  the  living  God ;  while  it 
is  also  stated  expressly  that  He  died,  the  just  for  the  unjust. 

Similar  as  Swedenborg's  theology  is  in  its  spirit  to  that  of 
Behmen,  I  find  him  expressly  stating  that  he  had  never  read 
the  German  theosophist. 

Concerning  the  Church  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  Swedenborg 
says,  '  Since  the  Lord  cannot  manifest  himself  in  person  (to  the 
world),  which  has  just  been  shown  to  be  impossible,  and  yet 
He  has  foretold  that  He  would  come  and  establish  a  New 
Church,  which  is  the  New  Jerusalem,  it  follows  that  He  will 
eftect  this  by  the  instrumentality  of  a  man,  who  is  able  not 
only  to  receive  the  doctrines  of  that  Church  in  his  understand- 
ing, but  also  to  make  them  known  by  the  press.  That  the 
Lord  manifested  Himself  before  me  His  servant,  that  He  sent 
me  on  this  office,  and  afterwards  opened  the  sight  of  my  spirit, 
and  so  let  me  into  the  spiritual  world,  permitting  me  to  see  the 
heavens  and  the  hells,  and  also  to  converse  with  angels  and 
spirits ;  and  this  now  continually  for  many  years,  I  attest  in 
truth  ;  and  farther,  that  from  the  first  day  of  my  call  to  this 
office,  I  have  never  received  anything  appertaining  to  the  doc- 
trines of  that  Church  from  any  angel,  but  from  the  Lord  alone, 
whilst  I  was  reading  the  Word.' — True  Christian  Religion^ 
§  779- 


BOOK    THE     THIRTEENTH 


CONCLUSION 


vci..  ri. 


CHAPTER  I. 

War  nicht  das  Auge  sonnenhaft, 
Wie  koFiUten  wir  zur  Sonne  blicken? 
War  nicht  in  uns  des  Gottes  eigne  Kraft,  [ 

Wie  konnt  uns  Gottliches  entziicken  ? '  ; 

Goethe. 

T7ARLY  in  December,  Atherton  was  called  away  from 
■*—'  Ashfield  by  some  matters  of  business.  His  solitary 
evenings  were  spent  in  the  chief  inn  of  a  quiet  cathedral 
town,  and  solaced  by  the  drawing  up  of  a  kind  of  summary, 
which  was  to  indicate  the  main  results  arrived  at  by  so  much 
reading  and  talking  about  the  mystics.  This  final  review  was 
despatched  in  a  letter  to  Gower, — was  read  aloud  by  him  to  a 
full  auditory  (comprising,  beside  its  ordinary  members,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lowestoffe,  who  haji  come  up  to  spend  Christmas), — 
and  is  here  inserted. 

Old  Red  Dragon,  Sfiorjwibury. 

My  dear  Gower, 

I  had  purposed  keeping  this  concluding  paper, 
which  you  asked  of  me,  till  I  could  rejoin  you  once  more,  and 
we  might  read  and  talk  over  it  together.  But  I  cannot  say 
how  long  I  may  be  detained  here :  so  I  send  it  you  at  once, 
that  our  mystical  inquiries  may  be  wound  up  before  the  Christ- 
mas merry-makings  begin. 

In  the  present  day,  there  are  (evf  who  will  acknowledge  the 
name  of  mystic.  Indeed,  Mysticism  is  now  held  in  combina- 
tion with  so  many  modifying  or  even  counteracting  elements, 
that  a  very  strongly-marked   or  extreme  expression  of  it  is 

1  Held  our  eyes  no  sunny  sheen, 
How  could  sunshine  e'er  be  seen  ? 
Dwelt  no  power  divine  within  us, 
How  could  God's  divineness  win  us? 

Z  2 


340  Conchtsiofi.  [n.  xm. 

scarcely  possible.  Yet  in  many  and  very  diverse  forms  of 
religious  opinion,  a  mystical  tendency  may  be  discerned.  It  is 
apparent  in  the  descendant  of  Irving,  with  his  supernatural 
gifts ;  among  some  of  the  followers  of  Fox,  where  the  inner 
light  eclipses  the  outer  ;  in  the  disciple  of  Swedenborg,  so 
familiar  with  the  world  of  spirits.  The  mystical  tendency  is 
present,  also,  wherever  the  subjective  constituent  of  religion 
decidedly  overbalances  the  objective.  It  is  to  be  found  where- 
ever  the  religionist  (under  whatever  pretence)  refuses  to  allow 
the  understanding  to  judge  concerning  what  falls  within  its 
proper  province.  Thus,  I  tend  toward  mysticism,  if  I  invest 
either  my  religious  intuitions  or  my  particular  interpretation  of 
scripture,  with  a  divine  halo — with  a  virtual  infallibiUty — and 
charge  with  profanity  the  man  whose  understanding  is  dissatis- 
fied with  my  conclusions.  The  '  evangelical '  is  wrong,  if  he 
hastily  condemns,  as  'carnal,'  him  who  does  not  find  his 
express  doctrines  in  the  Bible; — if,  instead  of  attempting  to 
satisfy  the  understanding  of  the  objector  with  reasons,  he  sum- 
marily dismisses  it,  by  misquoting  the  passage,  '  the  natural 
man  discerneth  not  the  things  of  the  spirit.'  The  'spiritualist ' 
errs,  in  precisely  the  same  way,  when  he  assumes  that  his  intui- 
tions are  too  holy  to  be  questioned  by  the  logical  faculty, — 
proclaims  his  religious  sentiment  above  criticism,  and  pro- 
'nounces  every  objection  the  utterance  of  a  pedantic  formalism, 
or  a  miserable  conventionality.  So  to  do,  is  to  confound  the 
childlike  and  the  childish, — to  forget  that  we  should  be,  in 
malice,  children ;  but  in  understanding,  men.  If  the  intuitioii 
of  the  one  man,  or  the  faith  of  the  other,  be  removed  from  the 
sphere  of  knowing,  and  the  court  of  evidence, — be  an  impulse 
or  an  instinct,  rather  than  a  conviction,  and  be  rendered  inac- 
cessible utterly  to  the  understanding,  then  is  the  bridge  broken 
down  between  them  and  their  fellows.  The  common  tongue 
of  interoretation  and  the  common  ground  of   argument  are 


c.  I.J  Schlcicnnachcr.  34 ^ 

taken  allogelher  away.  For  such  faith  no  reason  can  be 
rendered  to  him  who  has  it  not. 

In  Germany,  it  may  be  questioned  whether  the  efforts  of  tlic 
'faith-philosophers'  were  not  more  injurious  than  helpful  to  the 
cause  which  they  espoused.  They  endeavoured  to  shelter 
religion  from  Rationalism  by  relegating  it  to  the  province  of 
feeling  or  sentiment.  Hamann  and  Jacobi'  might  have  with- 
stood Rationalism  on  its  own  ground.  But  these  defenders 
abandoned,  without  a  blow,  the  fortifications  of  an  impregnable 
argument,  and  shut  themselves  up  in  the  citadel — faith.  Both 
were  soon  eclipsed  by  the  deservedly  great  name  of  Schleier- 
macher.  His  position  was  a  stronger  one  than  theirs,  and  more 
comprehensive ;  yet,  in  the  issue,  scarcely  more  satisfactory. 
In  Schleiermacher's  theology,  the  individual  '  Christian  con- 
sciousness '  is  made  the  test  according  to  which  more  or  less  of 
the  recorded  history  of  the  Saviour  is  to  be  received.  The 
supposed  facts  of  Christianity  contract  or  expand  according  to 
the  supposed  spiritual  wants  of  the  individual  Christian.  Thus, 
if  any  say,  '  Certain  of  the  miracles,  the  resurrection  and  ascen- 
sion of  Christ,  do  not  make  a  part  of  my  Christian  conscious- 
ness,— I  can  realize  spiritual  communion  with  Christ,  independ- 
ently of  these  accessories,' — Schleiermacher  tells  him  he  may 
dispense  with  believing  them.  Here,  again,  too  much  is  con- 
ceded :  portions  of  the  very  heart  are  set  aside  as  non-essentials. 
Christianity  is  a  living  whole,  and  cannot  be  thus  dismembered 
without  peril  to  life.  This  baptism  of  Schleiermacher  is  rapid 
and  sweeping,  and  the  veriest  sceptics  are  Christianized  in  spite 
of  themselves.  Men  whose  Christianity  is  historic,  much  as 
Mahommedanism  is  historic,  turn  out  excellent  Christians,  not- 
withstanding. 

Such  a  theory  is,  after  all,  ignoble,  because  it  does  not  seek 

See  F.  H.  Jacobi,  Von  dcii  Golt-  J'aith  -  Philosophy  are  expounded, 
lichen  Dingen  nnd  Hirer  Offenbaruni;  tliough  after  a  desultory,  disjointed 
(i8ii),    where   the  principles   of   the      ni.inner  :— moic  especially  pp.  70-93. 


342  Conclusion.  [b.  xni. 

Truth  alone,  at  all  costs.  The  first  object  of  religious  inquiry- 
is  not  moral  expediency,  not  edification,  not  what  we  may  deem 
productive  of  the  most  wholesome  impressions,  not  what  we 
wish  to  find  true ;  but  what  is  true.  Let  us  seek  the  Truth, 
and  if  faithful  to  what  we  can  find  of  that^  these  other  things 
will  be  added  to  us.  Mere  good  nature  is  a  spurious  charity. 
The  cause  of  religion  can  never  be  served  by  acquiescence  in  a 
falsehood.  The  Christianity  offered  by  Schleiermacher  is  a 
glass  which  mirrors  every  man — a  source  of  motive,  never 
beyond  our  own  level — a  provision  which  is  always  what  we 
like  and  expect.  Now,  it  may  so  happen  that  the  kind  of 
religion  we  should  like  is  not  that  which  is  the  true — not  that, 
therefore,  w-hich  is  good  for  us.  We  need  a  religion  adapted 
to  us,  but  yet  high  above  us,  to  raise  us  up.  The  untrained 
eye  does  not  at  the  first  view  appreciate  the  old  masters  of  art. 
If  we  are  sincere  in  seeking  God's  truth,  we  must  count  on 
having  to  receive  some  things  that  do  not  at  once  commend 
themselves  to  our  judgment,  but  into  which  we  shall  grow  up, 
in  the  process  of  spiritual  education.  Now,  for  this  kind  of 
self  transcendence  Schleiermacher  makes  no  preparation,  and 
his  easy  entrance  does,  in  reality,  preclude  progress.  We  are 
not  surprised  to  see  the  Romish  priest  considering  first,  not 
what  is  truth  or  fact,  but  what  statement  Avill  bring  the  greatest 
number  within  the  pale  of  the  Church,  what  will  produce  the 
most  edifying  impression,  what  will  do  least  violence  to  the 
current  preconceptions.  The  children  of  the  day  should 
disdain  the  slightest  approach  to  such  facile  complaisance.  If 
Christ  did  not  rise  from  the  dead,  Christianity  is  a  He.  On 
this  question  no  inquiry  must  be  si)ared — our  minds  must  be 
thoroughly  made  up.  But  to  allow  the  name  of  Christian  to 
men  who  do  not  regard  this  fact  as  established,  looks  as  tliough 
wc  were  afraid  of  inquiry, — as  politic  governments  will  seem 
not  to  see  offences  which  it  would  be  dangerous  to  punish       1 


c.  I.J  A   Limit  to  Concession.  34'' 

justify  my  means  by  my  entl  — 1  am  wanting  in  truth  and  man- 
hood, if,  having  myseU*  rejected  some  doctrine,  I  yet  appear  to 
hold  it,  because  I  think  it  morally  expedient  that  it  should  be 
generally  received.  I  am  guilty  of  a  similar  pious  fraud  if  I 
yield  up  as  non-essential  some  fact  on  which  the  Christian  faith 
must  hang,  in  order  to  recall  certain  wanderers  to  the  fold  of  ., 
nominal  Christianity.  Schleiermacher's  sincerity  can  only  btj 
saved  at  the  expense  of  his  judgment.  This  was  the  weak 
point  of  his  accomplished  intellect — a  weakness  shared  by 
many  a  German  divine, — he  regarded  external  facts  as  of  small 
moment  compared  with  inward  feeling.  The  continual  evapora 
tion  of  outward  reality  in  sentiment  is  the  vitiating  principle  in 
his  system.^ 

Side  by  side  with  the  advocates  of  faith  and  feeling  in  the 
religious  province,  appeared  German  Romanticism  in  the  field 
of  art  and  literature.  The  Romanticists  were  the  enthusiastic 
champions  of  the  Ideal  against  Realism,  the  assailants  of  all 
artificial  method  and  servile  conventionality,  the  sworn  foe3 
everywhere  of  that  low-minded,  prosaic  narrowness  which 
Germany  calls  Philistinism.* 

3  To  Schleiermacher  the  theology  of  they  have  admitted,  with  scarcely  aN 

his   country    owes  great   and   lasting  exception,  that  he  conceded  so  much 

obligation  for  having  led  the  intellec-  for  the  sake  of  peace  as  to  render  his 

tiial  promise  of  his  time  to  a  momen-  position  untenable.     Their  master  led 

tons  crisis  of  transition.     His  genius  them   to   an   elevation    whence    thei( 

at    once    kindled   the   enthusiasm   of  discerned  a  farther  height  and  surer 

youth,    and  allowed   a  space   to    its  resting-place  than  he  attained.     For  a 

scepticism.      As     much    opposed    as  more  detailed    account    of    Schleier- 

Hamann  or  Jacobi  to  the  contemptuous  macher  and   his  theological  position, 

Rationalism    which     then    held    the  the  reader  is  referred  to  an  article  by 

scorner's  chair,  he  did  not,  like  them,  the  Author  in  the  British  Quarterly 

couch  a  polemic  lance  against  philo-  Review  for  May,  1849. 

sophy.     But    real   and    important   as  ■*  The    principles    of    the    genuine 

was  his  advance  beyond  the  low  and  Romanticism    (as  distinguished    from 

superficial  anti-sui)ranaturalisin  which  its  later  and  degenerate  form)  are  ably 

preceded  him,  the  follower^  of  Schleier-  enunciated    by     Tieck,    in    a    comic 

macher   found    it    impossible    to  rest  drama,   entitled  Prince    Zerbiiio ;  or, 

where  he  did.   From  among  his  pupils  Travels  in  Search  cf  Good  Taste.  One 

have  sprung  the  greatest  names  in  this  Nestor,  a  prosaic  pedant,  who  piques 

generation   of    German   divines,    and  himself  on  understanding  everything, 


344  VoncCusion.  [b.  xiii. 

Sclielling  gave  them  a  poetical  philosophy,  and  young 
Schleiermacher's  Discourses  on  Religion  were,  for  a  time,  their 
Bible.  French  Encyclopedism  and  German  Rationalism  had 
professed  a  summary  explanation  for  every  mystery,  had  exiled 
Che  supernatural,  and  ridiculed  the  Middle  Age.  In  the  pages 
of  the  Athenceum  and  the  Etnopa,  Romanticism  undertook  the 
defence  of  mediaeval  superstition,  extolled  its  fist-law,  its  wager 
by  battle,  its  '  earnest '  religious  wars;  and  confounding  clear. 
thought  and  definite  expression  with  the  pert  self-complacence 
of  Rationalism,  announced  itself  enamoured  of  every  mystical 
obscurity,  for  the  very  shadow's  sake. 

The  evils  against  which  the  Romanticists  contended  were 
many  of  them  real ;  much  they  laughed  at,  well  deserving 
ridicule  ;  but  with  their  truth  they  mingled  a  world  of  fantastic 
folly.  Voltaire  was,  in  many  things,  as  shallow  as  he  was 
transparent, — therefore  the  muddy  obscurity  of  every  visionary 
who  rhapsodized  about  the  All,  must  be  profound  as  the  *  ever- 
lasting deeps.'  Conventionalism,  utilitarianism,  logic-grinding, 
old  formulas, — all  v/ere  to  be  dethroned  by  the  inspired  votaries 
of  intellectual  intuition.  The  most  startling  extravagance  or 
desperate  paradox  of    opinion    was  hailed  with  the    loudest 

and  on  his  freedom  from  all  enthusiasm  tion.     This  Garden  of  Poesy  seems  to 

and  imaginative   nonsense,    is    intro-  him  a  lair  of  savages,   an  asylum  for 

duced   into  the  wondrous  garden  of  lunatics,  where  all  his  smug  conven- 

the  Goddess  of  Poesy.  There  he  sees,  tionalisms  are  trampled  on,  and  every 

among  others,  Dante  and  Ariosto,  Cer-  canon  of  his  criticism  suffers  flagrant 

vantes  and  Sophocles.     He  complains  violation.     Genii  take  him  away,  and 

of    not    finding    Hagedorn,    Gellert,  give  him  something  substantial  to  eat 

Gesner,  Kleist,  or  Bodmer  ;    and  the  —earth    to    earth.     The    tables    and 

Goddess  then   points  him   out— as  a  chairs   begin   to  talk  to  him.     They 

true   German  bard — stout  old    Hans  congratulate     tliemselves     on     being 

Sachs.     Dante  appears  to  him  a  crusty  delivered  from  their  old  free  life  in  the 

old    fogie  ;    Tasso,    a    well-meaning  woods,  and  cut  out  into /«^/// articles 

man,  but  weak  ;  and  Sophocles,  whom  of  furniture,  so  fulfilling  the  purpose 

he  was  disposed  to  respect  as  a  classic,  of    their  being.     He   gets   on    much 

when  blamed  for  the  obscurity  of  his  better  with  them  than  with  the  poets, 

choruses,  turns  upon  him  like  a  bear.  and   thinks   them    (himself  excepted) 

The  conceited  impertinence,  the  know-  the   most    sensible    creatures    in    the 

ing  air,  and  the  puzzle-headedness  of  world, 
the  Philisune,  are  hit  off  to  admira- 


c.  I.]  The  Romanticists.  345 


plaudits,  as  most  surely  fraught  with  the  divine  afilatus.  The 
Romanticists  essayed  to  harmonize  the  ideal  and  the  real.  For 
the  most  part,  they  succeeded  only  in  confounding  their 
spheres;  and  ending  by  absorbing  the  real  in  the  ideal.  In 
their  hands,  philosophy  became  imaginative  and  rhetorical, — a 
very  garden  of  gay  fancies  ;  while  poetry  grew  metaphysical 
and  analytic.  Where  they  should  have  created,  they  dissect ; 
where  they  should  have  inquired,  they  imagine.^ 

It  is  a  cardinal  doctrine  with  Romanticism  that  the  common 
should  be  regarded  as  the  wondrous,  and  the  wondrous  as  the 
common.  The  land  of  faery  is  to  be  our  beaten  business  track  ; 
its  dreamy  speech,  a  household  language  ;  its  spirit-glances,  our 
familiar  looks.  At  the  same  time,  the  objects  and  appliances 
of  everyday  existence  are  to  be  informed  with  supernatural 
significance,  and  animated  with  a  mysterious  life.  So,  in 
Sartor  Resartus  (a  book  which  is  simply  the  Evangel  of 
Romanticism,  in  its  more  vigorous  form),  Mr.  Carlyle  reminds 
the  reader  that  his  '  daily  life  is  girt  with  Wonder,'  and  that  his 
*  very  blankets  and  breeches  are  Miracles.'  Thus  our  life  is  to 
be  at  once  a  trophy  and  a  bazaar  ;  like  old  Westminster  Hall, 
where  the  upper  story  was  gorgeous  with  blazonry  and  proud 
with  the  ensigns  of  chivalrous  romance,  and  the  ground-floor 
laid  out  in  shops. 

Ere  long,  Romanticists  like  Creuzer  and  Gorres,  began  to 
resolve  the  old  mythologies  into  allegorical  science  :  while 
Romanticists  like  Frederick  Schlegel,  were  resolving  religion 
into  poetry,  and  morality  into  aesthetics.  Dante  and  Tasso, 
Camoens  and  Goethe,  had  intermingled  classic  and  romantic 
myths,  as  a  poetic  decoration,  or  a  fanciful  experiment.  With 
the  Romanticists  (so  frequently  mastered  by  their  own  materials), 
such  admixture  became  actual  earnest.     They  announced  the 

'  Sec  Julian  Schmidt,  Cn'schichtc  der  Deiitschcii  National  Li/cra/ur  iin  19" 
Jahiiiuiidei  t,  th.  i.  c.  vi. 


34^  Conc(usio)i.  [b.  xm- 

approach  of  a  new  Religion  of  Humanity  and  Art.  They 
summoned  flower-spirits  from  the  Ganges,  braceleted  crocodiles 
from  the  Nile,  monstrous  forms  from  the  Talmud  and  the 
Koran,  to  fill  its  incongruous  pantheon  of  symbols.  The  novel 
wonders  of  animal  magnetism  were  to  constitute  its  miracles. 
Thus,  like  Proclus,  they  could  make  philosophy  superstitious, 
they  could  not  make  superstition  philosophical.  They  attempted 
the  construction  of  a  true  and  universal  religion,  by  heaping 
together  the  products  of  every  recorded  religious  falsity,  and 
bowing  at  all  shrines  in  turn.  Like  lamblichus,  they  sought  in 
theurgy  for  a  sign ;  and  in  their  credulous  incredulity,  grew 
greedy  of  every  supranaturalism  except  the  scriptural.  In  a 
moment  of  especial  inspiration,  Frederick  Schlegel,  writing  in 
the  At/ieiuEuni,  declared  that  the  only  opposition  which  the 
new  religion  of  philanthropy  and  good  taste  was  likely  to 
encounter,  would  spring  from  the  few  Christians  proper  still  in 
existence ;  but  even  they,  when  the  Aurora  actually  shone, 
would  fling  aside  their  prejudice,  fall  down,  and  worship." 

Such  anticipations  appear  ridiculous  enough.  But  against 
ridicule,  to  which  they  were  peculiarly  sensitive,  the  Roman- 
ticists possessed  a  ready  safeguard.  This  resource  consisted  in 
their  doctrine  of  Irony.  After  advancing  a  paradox,  or  pushing 
a  fancy  to  the  edge  of  absurdity,  let  the  author  turn  round,  and 
abandon  his  own  creation ;  or  dissipate  it,  with  a  serene  smile ; 
or  assuming  another  tone,  look  down  upon  it,  as  questionable, 
from  some  new  and  superior  height.  Thus,  if  any  dullard 
begins  gravely  to  criticise,  he  shall  have  only  laughter  for  his 
pains,  as  one  too  gross  for  the  perception  of  humour ;  while  at 
the  same  time,  the  reader  is  given  to  understand  that  beneath 
that  jest  there  docs  lie,  nevertheless,  a  kernel  of  most  earnest 
and  momentous  truth.  According  to  the  Ironic  theory,  such 
saying  and  unsaying  is  not  convenient  merely  (as  a  secret  door 

t"  Schmidt,  p.  60. 


c.  I.]  Pall  of  RonianticisDl.  347 


of  escape  behind  the  tapestry),  but  in  the  highest  degree  artistic 
For  what  is  Art,  but  a  subUme  play  ?  Does  not  loftiest  genius 
ever  sport,  godlike,  with  its  material,  remote  and  riddling  to  the 
lower  apprehension  of  common  minds  ?  In  Sartor  Rcsartus 
the  English  public  have  been  famiHarized  with  this  ingenious 
device.  After  professing  to  translate,  from  the  paper-bags  of 
Teufelsdrockh,  some  ultra-transcendental  sally,  Mr.  Carlyle 
makes  a  practice  of  addressing  the  reader,  admits  that  he  may 
well  feel  weary  and  perplexed,  confesses  that  he  himself  does 
not  always  see  his  way  in  these  '  strange  utterances,'  calls  them 
a  farrago  whose  meaning  must  be  mainly  conjectured,  and 
finally  leaves  it  pleasantly  uncertain  how  much  is  delirium,  how 
much  inspiration. 

But  no  artifice  could  save  Romanticism,  in  the  hands  of  its 
most  extravagant  representatives,  from  the  condign  catastrophe. 
This  sensuous  aesthetic  religion,  this  effeminate  symbolism,  with 
its  gallery  of  arbitrary  and  incongruous  types  from  the  dreams 
of  all  time, — this  worship  of  Art  as  Deity,  could  tend  but  in 
one  direction.  The  men  who  began  with  sentimental  admiration 
for  the  Church  of  Rome,  ended  by  passing  their  necks  beneath 
her  yoke  ;  and  the  artist  terminates  miserably  in  the  bigot. 
They  had  contemned  the  Reformation,  on  aesthetic  grounds,  as 
unromantic  :  they  came  to  dread  it  on  superstitious  grounds  as 
unsafe.  Romanticism,  so  sanguine  and  so  venturous  in  its 
revolutionary  youth,  grew  anile  in  its  premature  decrepitude ; 
mumbled  its  credos ;  cursed  its  heretics — and  died. 

It  was  at  the  opening  of  the  present  century  that  the  great 
rush  to  Rome  took  place  :  a  significant  lesson,  indicating  the 
constant  issue  of  that  subjective  poetical  religionism  which 
divorces  Truth  from  Beauty,  which  craves  religiovis  fancies  and 
neglects  religious  facts,  till  it  falls  a  victim  to  the  greatest 
religious  fallacy.  Tlien  was  celebrated  the  perversion  of 
Frederick  Schlegel,  of  Adam  Miiller,  of  Zachariah  Werner — 'a 


34S  Conctiisidn.  [n.  ww. 

born  mystic,'  as  Carlyle  rightly  styles  him.  Tieck,  who  must 
stand  acquitted  of  the  follies  of  the  school ;  and  August  Wilhelm 
Schlegel  (despite  some  crotchets,  immeasurably  superior  to 
Frederick)  retained  their  Protestantism. 

Novalis,  for  by  this  name  Friedrich  von  Hardenberg  is  most 
known,  is  perhaps  as  fair  a  representative  of  Romanticism  as 
can  be  found.  He  had  no  occasion,  like  some  of  the  party,  to 
affect,  as  so  much  art,  the  language  of  the  mystics  whom  he 
studied  with  such  devotion.  Novalis  was  to  the  manner  born. 
To  none  was  the  realm  of  reverie  and  fable — visited  by  most  of 
us  only  at  intervals — more  completely  a  familiar,  daily  dwelling- 
place.  Scarcely  to  the  morbid  phantasy  of  Hoffmann  was  the 
ordinary  life  more  visibly  inwrought  with  the  mysterious. 
Poetry  was  his  practical  staff  of  every-day  existence ;  and 
practical  life,  to  him,  all  poetry.  The  creations  of  his  fancy 
were  his  Holy  Writ ;  and  Holy  Writ  the  most  divine  creation 
of  the  fancy.  Werner  regretted  that  men  should  ever  have 
employed  two  distinct  terms  to  designate  Art  and  Religion. 
With  Novalis  they  are  perfectly  identical.  It  is  his  wont  to 
deal  with  spiritual  truth  by  analogies  drawn  from  physics,  and 
to  investigate  physics  by  his  mystical  axioms  concerning  spiritual 
truth.  A  mind  so  desultory  and  discursive  was  quite  unequal 
to  the  formation  of  a  system.  But  to  what  sort  of  system  such 
a  confusion  of  thought  must  lead,  if  ever  methodically  elaborated, 
has  not  patient,  hard-working  Jacob  Behmen  already  shown  us  ? 
Where  other  men  are  satisfied  with  tracing  a  resemblance, 
Novalis  announces  an  identity.  What  others  use  as  an  illustra- 
tion, he  will  obey  as  a  principle.  With  him,  as  with  the  old 
theosophists,  the  laws  of  the  universe  are  the  imaginative  ana- 
logies which  link  together  all  its  regions,  seen  and  unseen,— 
analogies  bred  in  his  own  heated  brain. 

Thus,  according  to   Novalis,   he  is  the  true  Archimage  of 
Idealism,  *  who  can  transform  external  things  into  thoughts,  and 


0.  I.]  Novalis.  349 

thoughts  into  external  things.'  '  The  poet,'  he  says,  *  is  the  true 
enchanter  :  by  identifying  himself  with  an  object  lie  compels  it 
to  become  what  he  will.'  '  Experience  is  magical,  and  only 
magically  explicable.'  'Physics  is  the  theory  of  imagination.' 
*  Religion,  Love,  Nature,  Politics,  all  must  be  treated  mystically.' 
On  such  a  principle  alone  can  we  account  for  the  ultra-Neopla- 
tonist  rodomontade  he  utters  in  praise  of  mathematics.  He 
declares  the  genuine  mathematician  the  enthusiast /^rt'r  excei/efice 
— mathematics  is  the  life  of  the  gods — it  is  religion — it  is  virtual 
omniscience.  Mathematical  books  are  to  be  read  devoutly,  as 
the  word  of  God.^ 

The  suggestive  and  sparkling  aphorisms  of  Novalis  should  be 
read  with  due  allowance.  Some  contain  admirable  thoughts, 
pointedly  expressed ;  others  are  curiously  perverse  or  puerile. 
Now  they  breathe  the  lofty  stoical  spirit  we  find  in  Schleier- 
macher's  monologues.  Presently,  Fichte  seems  forgotten  ;  the 
strain  of  Titanic  self-assertion  is  relaxed,  and  Novalis  languidly 
reclines  with  the  Lotos-eaters  among  the  flowers.  In  one  page 
life  is  but  '  a  battle  and  a  march,'  in  another,  the  soul's  activity 
is  an  eating  poison  ;  love,  a  sickness  ;  life,  the  disease  of  the 
spirit — a  brief  fever,  to  be  soothed  by  the  slumber  of  mystical 
repose,  and  healed  at  last  by  healthful,  restful  death.  In  this 
latter  mood  he  woos  the  sleepy  abstraction  of  the  oriental 
mysticism.  Action  is  morbid,  in  his  eyes;  to  dream  is  to 
overcome.  All  activity  ceases,  he  says,  when  Knowledge  enters. 
The  condition  of  Knowlege  is  Eud^monia — saintly  calm  of 
contemplation/  Such  is  the  aspiration  dimly  discernible 
through  the  florid  obscurity  of  his  Hymns  to  Night.  Shutting 
out  the  garish  outer  world  of  the  Actual,  forgetting  all  its 
tinsel  glories  and  its  petty  pains,  the  enthusiast  seems  to  rise 
into  that  mystic  meditative  Night,  whose  darkness  reveals  more 

'  Novalis,  Schri/teti,  th.  ii.  pp.  152,  159,  221, 
s  Ibid.,  p.  158, 


350  Conclusion.  [b.  xm. 

truth  than  the  searching  brightness  of  the  dayhght,  and  in 
whose  recesses  his  transported  spirit  celebrates  its  bridal  with 
the  Queen  of  Heaven — the  aesthetic  Mary,  the  Eternal  Beauty, 

Now  that  the  assailants  of  Revelation  have  grown  so  ex- 
tremely pious,  we  find  them  zealously  enlisting  certain  modifi- 
cations of  mysticism  on  their  side.  Modern  spiritualism  revives 
the  tactics  of  ancient  philosophy.  It  borrows  from  Christianity 
(as  did  Porphyry)  a  higher  moral  tone  than  it  could  otherwise 
have  reached,  and  then  pretends  to  look  down  upon  the  ethics 
of  the  scriptures.  The  religious  sentiment  so  variously  evolved 
in  every  age  and  country,  is  brought  fortia  to  overwhelm  the 
religious  truth  revealed  in  Christ.  A  philosophic  church  is  set 
up.  The  hope  full  of  immortality  is  depreciated  as  low  and 
selfish.  Quietism  abased  itself  so  profoundly  that  it  would 
scarcely  lift  its  eyes  toward  that  hope.  Spiritualism  exalts  it- 
self so  ambitiously,  that  it  will  not  stoop  to  make  that  hope  its 
own.  In  the  seventeenth  century,  mysticism  was  in  sad 
earnest  on  this  question  of  disinterestedness  :  in  the  nineteenth, 
such  indifference  is  the  pretence  of  a  preposterous  self-suflici- 
ency. 

But  the  device  v/hich  failed  so  signally,  some  fourteen 
centuries  ago,  cannot  now  prevail,  though  the  hostile  approach 
is  more  artfully  contrived.  That  antichristian  sentimentalism 
which  is  too  refined  for  the  medium  of  a  book,  and  for  the 
morality  of  the  Bible,  was  discomfited  as  soon  as  seen,  and 
received  its  coup  de  grace  from  the  '  Eclipse  of  Faith,'  amidst 
universal  laughter.  But  this  repetition  of  old  ideas  is,  after  all, 
the  most  mortifying  and  damnatory  fact.  To  think  that  the 
advocates  of  a  philosophic  religious  sentiment,  in  opposition  to 
the  old  Book,  should  exhibit  as  little  novelty  as  their  enemies, 
>-that  even  after  throwing  off  the  Biblical  fetters,  no  progress 
ishould  be  visible, — that  the  haunting  Past  should  be  with  them 
still, — that  after  making  their  escape  from  antiquated  Paul  and 


c.  I.]  Old  and  Neiv.  351 

John,  they  should  find  themselves  in  company  with  antiquated 
Proclus  and  Plotinus  ! 

The  theosophy  of  Swedenborg  was  original.  Mysticism  has 
produced  nothing  really  new  in  that  direction  since  his  day, 
and  the  northern  seer  still  walks  alone  within  his  circle.  Franz 
Baader  re-clothes  the  bones  of  Behmen's  system  from  the  mate- 
rials of  modern  science ;  and  Oetinger,  a  student  both  of  Behmen 
and  of  Swedenborg,  attempts  to  arrange  a  divine  system  of 
science  by  the  mystical  interpretation  of  scripture.  Even  the 
'  holy  vegetation'  of  oriental  mysticism  has  been  reproduced. 
Schelling  bids  man  know  God  '  in  silent  not-knowing,'  as  the 
plant  reveals  eternal  beauty  in  '  stillest  existence  and  without 
reflection.'  Such  counsel  means  much  more  than  the  maxim, 
'  II  ne  faut  pas  voyager  pour  voir,  mais  pour  ne  pas  voir,'  so 
frequent  with  John  of  the  Cross  and  Fenelon.  Laurence  Oken, 
a  physiologist  of  note  and  a  disciple  of  Schelling,  sees  in  the 
snail  an  exalted  symbol  of  mind  slumbering  deeply  within  itself. 
He  beholds  in  that  creature  an  impersonation  of  majestic  wisdom: 
it  is  '  the  prophesying  goddess  sitting  on  the  tripod.'  What 
reflection,  what  earnestness,  what  timidity,  what  confidence  ! 
The  same  Oken  travesties  Behmen,  when  he  makes  red  = 
fire,  love.  Father  ;  blue  =  air,  truth,  belief,  Son  ;  green  = 
water,  formation,  hope,  Ghost ;  yellow  =  earth,  Satan.  He 
imagined  that  he  wrote  his  Physio-philosophy  in  a  kind  of 
inspiration.  Here,  again,  we  see  that  this  intellectual  intuition, 
professedly  so  keen,  so  spontaneous,  so  free  from  every  formula, 
does  yet  continually  repeat  itself. 

Great  and  various  have  been  the  services  rendered  by  mysti- 
cism throughout  the  history  of  the  Christian  Church.  It  has 
exposed  pretence.  It  has  demanded  tlioroughness.  It  has 
sought,  amidst  surrounding  formalism,  what  was  deemed  the 
highest  form  of  spirituality.  Its  strain  has  been  sometimes  of 
a  mood  so  high  as  to  '  create  a  soul  within  the  ribs  of  death.' 


/ 


352  Cone  I  list  071.  [b.  xm. 

But  it  has  been  influential  for  good  in  proportion  to  its  tem- 
perance in  the  doctrine  concerning  the  outward  rule  and  the 
inner  light.  Wherever  it  has  been  extravagant  in  this  respect 
— has  thrown  off  common  sense  or  decency — been  turbulent, 
licentious,  or  '  high  fantastical,'  there  good  men  and  thoughtful 
have  stood  mournfully  aloof  from  it,  while  formal  men  or 
designing  have  made  its  follies  a  plea  for  tightening  the  cords 
of  spiritual  oppression.  It  has  won  acceptance  from  men  when 
it  has  been  sufficiently  moderate  to  urge  intelligible  arguments, 
and  to  appeal  sincerely  (if  not  always  warrantably)  to  that  out- 
ward Revelation  which  is  commonly  received.  But  the  world 
has  rarely  been  disposed  to  receive  boastful  professions  of 
spirituality  or  freedom,  vague  declamation  and  rhapsodical 
denunciation  of  reason  or  the  schools,  in  the  place  of  those 
definite  expressions  of  opinion  which,  though  sometimes  narrow, 
are  at  least  readily  apprehensible.  Incalculable  must  be  the 
advantage  of  any  man  or  party  who  can  manifest  a  clear  mean- 
ing over  those  who  cannot. 

There  is  danger  in  the  present  day,  lest  in  the  reaction 
against  logical  formalism  and  prescription,  an  extravagant  value 
should  be  set  on  faith  for  its  own  sake.  The  Romanist  makes 
mere  faith,  blind  and  implicit,  a  saving  virtue.  The  spiritualist 
falls  into  the  same  error  when  he  says,  '  Only  be  in  earnest — 
get  faith  in  an  idea — in  something,  at  any  rate — and  all  will  be 
well.'  But  faith  is  a  principle,  not  an  instinct.  Among  the 
many  claimants  for  my  belief,  I  must  make  an  intelligent 
choice.  It  is  of  some  consequence  whether  the  '  idea'  on  which 
I  am  mounted  be  false  or  true.  It  can  be  good  for  no  man  to 
be  recklessly  earnest  in  the  devil's  work. 

Mysticism  has  generally  apprehended  religion  rather  on  its 
divine  than  on  its  human  side.  It  makes  haste  to  lose  huma- 
nity, and  to  be  glorified.  Grievous  afflictions  have  reminded 
some  of  the  mystical  aspirants  that  they  were  human  still.    The 


c.  I.]  What  tJie  Story  of  Mysticism  tcacJics.  353 

spiritual  pride  of  others  has  betrayed  them,  first  to  ostentatious 
sanctity,  and  then  to  shameful  sin.  Among  those  who  would 
surpass  humanity,  some  have  fallen  disgracefully,  others  ludi- 
crously, below  it.  There  have  been  those  whose  transformation 
proved  to  be  downward  to  a  lower  sphere,  not  upward  to  an 
element  more  rare.  They  fare  like  Lucius  in  the  Golden  Ass 
to  whom  Fotis  has  given  the  wrong  witch-salve.  He  extends 
his  arms,  he  sways  himself  to  and  fro,  he  expects  the  next 
moment  to  find  himself  changing  into  a  bird.  But  his  hands 
and  feet  grow  horny,  his  thickening,  irritated  skin  shoots  forth 
hairs,  and  behold  him  metamorphosed  into  an  ass.  The  thea- 
trical devotion,  so  frequent  among  the  ornaments  of  Roman 
saintship,  overlooks  common  duties,  sometimes  despises  neces- 
sary helps,  generally  mistakes  altogether  the  nature  of  true  great- 
ness. The  Christianity  exhibited  in  the  New  Testament  differs 
most  conspicuously  from  the  Mystical  Theology  in  being  so 
much  more  human.  It  addresses  man  as  he  is ;  it  addresses 
all ;  it  appeals  to  the  whole  nature  of  every  man.  It  knows 
nothing  of  class-religion.  It  does  not  bid  men  exhaust  them- 
selves in  efforts  to  live  only  in  the  apex  of  their  being — that 
uj/0oy  voov  of  which  Plotinus  speaks. 

The  history  of  mysticism  shows  us,  farther,  that  the  attempt 
to  escape  all  figure  or  symbol,  in  our  apprehensions  of  divine 
truth,  is  useless,  or  worse  than  useless.  Such  endeavour  com- 
monly ends  in  substituting  for  a  figure  which,  though  limited 
and  partial,  has  life  and  heart  in  it,  some  vague  abstraction, 
cold  and  lifeless, — and  itself,  perhaps,  ultimately  a  figure,  after 
all.  It  is  one  thing  to  remember  that  language  is  but  language, 
— that  behind  all  the  expressions  of  love  or  power  lies  an  infinity 
that  cannot  be  expressed.  It  is  another  to  leave  behind  (as 
many  mystics  have  striven  to  do)  even  the  vital  breathing 
metaphors  of  Holy  Writ,  and  restlessly  to  peer  beyond,  into 
the  Unutterable — the  Illimitable.      Surely  the  words  '  King/ 

VOL.  II.  -^ A  A 


354  Conchision.  [d.  xm. 

•^  '  Shepherd,'  '  Father,'  express  more  truth  concerning  God  than 
W  the  'pure  Act'  of  philosophy.  When  I  speak  of  God  as  near 
or  distant,  pleased  or  displeased,  the  change  may  be  in  me  rather 
than  in  Him,  But  in  practical  result — in  the  effects  I  feel — it 
is  to  me  as  though  such  change  of  disposition  were  real.  And 
mysticism  must  freely  grant  me  this,  if  it  would  not  play  into 
the  hands  of  scholasticism,  its  hereditary  foe.  There  is  a  sickly 

!       dread  of  anthropomorphism  abroad  among  us,  which  is  afraid 
of  attributing  to  God  a  heart. 

Mysticism  has  often  spoken  out  bravely  and  well  against 
those  who  substitute  barren  propositions  for  reUgious  life, — 
who  reject  the  kindly  truth  to  make  a  tyrant  of  some  rigid 

j       theory  or  system.     But  there  is  danger  also  on  the  other  side. 

I  An  imaginative,  brainsick  man,  may  substitute  religious  vaga- 
ries, whims,  conceits,  for  religious  truth.  Men  may  be  led  as 
far  astray  by  mere  feeling  as  by  mere  logic.  While  the  man  of 
method  makes  an  idol  of  his  theory,  the  enthusiast  may  make 
an  idol  of  his  passion  or  his  fancy.  To  this  latter  snare  we 
have  seen  mysticism  repeatedly  fall  a  prey.  The  fanatic  and 
the  formaUst  both  essay  to  build  a  temple  to  the  Holy  Spirit. 
The  formalist  is  satisfied  with  raising  the  structure ;  and  a  sorry 
taper,  here  and  there,  makes  darkness  visible.  The  fanatic 
kindles  so  many  lights,  and  with  so  little  care,  that  he  burns  his 
edifice  to  the  ground,  as  did  the  Florentines  their  Church  of 
the  San  Spirito,  from  excessive  illumination. 

Anatomists  tell  us  of  what  they  term  vicarious  secretion  in 
the  bodies  of  men.  One  organ  is  found,  in  some  cases  of 
injury,  to  produce  the  secretion  proper  to  another ;  and  so  we 
survive  the  hurt.  I  think  some  process  of  the  kind  must 
supervene  for  the  benefit  of  our  minds.  With  many  of  the 
mystics,  I  doubt  not,  the  heart  performed,  in  their  spiritual 
oeconomy,  the  functions  of  the  head.  A  careful  scrutiny  of  the 
mystical  theology  will  show,  I  am  confident,  that  several  of  its 


[.]  Mysticisvi — its  Services^  Dangers,  Preservatives.  355 


iJiominent  doctrines  are,  in  fact,  most  valuable  correctives,  and 
probabl}'  took  or  maintained  their  place  as  such.  These  doc- 
trines, some  of  which  by  no  means  commend  themselves  to  the 
non-mystical  mind,  are  the  preservatives  of  the  mystic  from 
his  peculiar  dangers.  Mysticism  leads  to  an  excessive  and 
morbid  introspection.  How  necessary,  then,  that  doctrine  of 
'  unconsciousness  '  reiterated  by  John  of  the  Cross  and  Fenelon, 
— itself  an  extreme,  but  indispensable  to  counteract  its  opposite. 
Mysticism  has  taught  many  to  expect  a  perceptible  inward 
guidance.  How  necessary,  then,  the  doctrine  of  '  quiet,' — that 
the  soul  should  be  abstracted  in  a  profound  stillness,  lest  the 
hasty  impulses  of  self  should  be  mistaken  for  a  divine  monition. 
Mysticism  exalts  the  soul  to  a  fervour  and  a  vision,  fraught 
with  strange  sweetnesses  and  glories.  How  necessary,  then,  that 
doctrine  of  the  more  elevated  Quietism  which  bids  the  mystic 
pass  beyond  the  sensible  enjoyments  and  imaginative  delights 
of  religion — escape  from  the  finer  senses  of  the  soul,  as  well  as 
the  grosser  senses  of  the  body,  into  that  state  of  pure  and 
imageless  contemplation  which  has  no  preference  or  conception 
of  its  own.  If  Quietism  is  not  to  become  a  fantastic  selfish- 
ness, a  sensuous  efifeminacy,  a  voice  must  cry,  '  Haste  through 
the  picture-gallery — haste  through  the  rose-garden — dare  the 
darkness,  wherein  the  glory  hides  ! ' 

The  lawless  excesses  of  which  mysticism  has  been  occasionally 
guilty  should  not  serve  to  commend  spiritual  despotism.  The 
stock  alternative  with  the  Church  of  Rome  has  been — '  Accept 
these  fanatical  outbreaks  as  divine,  or  submit  to  our  rule.' 
Unfortunately  for  this  very  palpable  sophism,  the  most  mon- 
strous mystical  extravagance,  whether  of  pantheism,  theurgy, 
or  miracle,  is  to  be  found  in  the  Romish  Church.  Angelas 
Silesius,  Angela  de  Foligni,  and  Christina  Mirabilis,  are  nowhere 
surpassed  in  their  respective  extremes.  The  best  of  the  Romish 
mystics  are   questionable    Romanists.     Tauler  and    Madame 

A  .\  2 


356  Conclusion.  [k.  xm. 

Guyon  were  more  Protestant  than  they  were  aware.  Even  the 
submissive  Fenelon  is  but  a  half-hear'.od  son  of  the  Cliurch, 
beside  that  most  genuine  type  of  her  saintship — the  zealous 
Dominic.  Innocent  folk  are  sometimes  inclined  to  think  better 
of  a  system  which  could  produce  a  man  like  Fenelon.  They 
forget  that,  as  a  product  of  the  system,  Fenelon  was  a  very 
inferior  specimen — little  better  than  a  failure. 

There  is  a  considerable  class,  in  these  restless,  hurrying, 
striving  days,  who  would  be  much  the  better  for  a  measure  of 
spiritual  infusion  from  the  Quietism  of  Madame  Guyon.  She 
has  found  an  excellent  expositor  and  advocate  in  Mr.  Upham. 
The  want  of  leisure,  the  necessity  for  utmost  exertion,  to  which 
most  of  us  are  subject,  tends  to  make  us  too  anxious  about 
trifles,  presumptuously  eager  and  impatient.  We  should  thank 
the  teacher  who  aids  us  to  resign  ourselves,  to  be  nothing,  to 
wait,  to  trust.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  such  lessons  will 
have  the  greatest  charm  for  those  who  need  them  least — for 
pensive,  retiring  contemplatists,  who  ought  rather  to  be  driven 
out  to  action  and  to  usefulness.  There  is  a  danger  lest  passivity 
should  be  carried  too  far — almost  as  though  man  were  the  help- 
less object  about  which  light  and  darkness  were  contending, 
rather  than  himself  a  combatant,  armed  by  God  against 
the  powers  of  night.  It  seems  to  me,  too,  better  to  watch 
against,  and  suppress  as  they  arise,  our  selfish  tendencies  and 
tempers — our  envy,  pride,  indifference,  hate,  covetousness — than 
to  be  always  nervously  trying  (as  Fenelon  does)  to  catch  that 
Proteus,  Self,  in  the  abstract. 

Finally,  in  the  mischievous  or  unsuccessful  forms  of  mysti- 
cism we  have  the  recorded  result  of  a  series  of  attempts  to  sub- 
stitute the  inner  light  for  the  outer.  When  mysticism  threw 
off  external  authority  altogether,  it  went  mad — as  we  have  seen 
in  the  revolutionary  pantheism  of  the  Middle  Age.  When  it 
incorporated  itself  more  and  more  in  revealed  truth,  it  became 


c.  I.")  Quietism  in  the  Present  Day.  357 


a  benign  power — as  on  the  eve  of  the  Reformation.  The  testi- 
mony of  history,  then,  is  repeatedly  and  decisively  uttered 
against  those  who  imagine  that  to  set  aside  the  authority  of 
Scripture  would  be  to  promote  the  religious  life  of  men.  The 
Divine  Spirit  is  with  us  yet ;  and  the  healing,  elevating  wisdom 
of  the  inspired  page  unexhausted  still.  The  hope  of  our  age 
lies,  not  in  a  conceited  defiance  of  controul,  but  in  our  ability 
more  fully  to  apprehend  the  counsels  God  Himself  has  given 
us.  Argument  may  be  evaded.  To  speak  in  the  name  of 
religion  may  seem  to  beg  the  question.  But  to  resist  the 
verdict  of  the  past  is  not  the  part  of  any  thoughtful  man.  He 
who  hopes  to  succeed  in  superseding  letter  by  spirit — in  dis- 
seminating a  gospel  more  spiritual  than  that  of  scripture,  by 
somehow  dispensing  with  the  vehicle  which  all  truth  requires 
for  its  conveyance, — who  hopes  to  succeed  in  any  attempt 
approaching  this,  where  more  powerful  minds,  sometimes  more 
favourably  situated,  have  met  only  with  defeat — such  a  fanatic 
must  be  dismissed  with  pity  as  totally  incurable: 

It  grows  late.     Good  night  all.     If  I  can  get  back  earlier 
I  will. 

Yours, 

Henry  Atherton. 


CHAPTER  II. 

La  raison,  dit  saint  Augustin,  ne  se  soumettroit  jamais,  si  elle  ne  jugeoit  qu'il 
y  a  des  occasions  on  elle  doit  se  soumettre.  II  est  done  juste  qu'elle  sesoiimette 
quaiid  elle  juge  qu'elle  doit  se  soumettre  ;  et  qu'elle  ne  se  soumette  pas,  quand 
elle  juge  avec  fondement  qu'elle  ne  doit  pas  le  faire  :  mais  il  faut  prendre  garde 
a  ne  pas  se  tromper. — Pascal. 

f~^  OWER  ceased  reading.  A  few  irregular  remarks  and 
questions  followed  the  short  silence.  Willotighby  ex- 
pressed his  wish  that  Atherton  were  with  them,  and  was  echoed 
by  the  lady  of  Ashfield.  Kate  received  Atherton's  bulky  letter 
from  Gower's  hands,  and  began  to  look  it  over  for  herself,  as 
we  always  do  with  newspapers,  however  fully  read  aloud.  Mrs. 
Lowestoffe  was  cutting  out  some  ingenious  paper  figures, 
destined  to  throw  little  Kate  into  rapturous  glee,  and  her 
husband  had  just  petitioned  for  music,  when  the  deep  bark 
of  Lion  was  heard  in  the  court-yard  ;  then  the  muffled  sound 
of  hoofs  and  wheels  over  the  snow,  and  a  tearing  peal  of 
the  bell. 

It  was  Atherton,  who,  released  sooner  than  he  had  hoped, 
had  followed  his  epistle  at  speed,  sweeping  with  the  wind, 
through  the  whitening  hills,  for  two-thirds  of  the  December 
day. 

In  half  an  hour  he  was  among  his  guests — had  refreshed  him 
after  his  journey — been  upstairs  to  kiss  his  sleeping  child — and 
now  appeared,  blithesome  and  ruddy,  diffusing  smiles.  En- 
throned in  his  favourite  arm-chair,  he  amused  them  with  the 
story  of  what  he  had  seen,  and  heard,  and  done  ;  nothing  un- 
common, certainly,  but  full  of  life  and  humour  in  his  style  of 
telling.     On  his  way  home  that  day  he  had  met  with  an  enter- 


c.  2.]  Ceyioiis  Spicy  Breezes.  359 

taining  companion  in  the  railway  carriage,  a  little  spherical 
old  gentleman,  exhibiting  between  upper  and  nether  masses  of 
fur  a  narrow  segment  of  face, — gruff  and  abrupt  in  speecii — 
ferocious  about  stoppages  and  Avindows, — who  had  been  in 
India,  and  knew  everybody  who  was  '  anybody'  there. 

'  We  talked,'  said  Atherton,  *  about  Brahmins  and  Buddhists, 
about  the  Bhilsa  Topes  and  Major  Cunningham,  about  the 
civil  service,  and  what  not.  On  every  topic  he  was  surprisingly 
well  informed,  and  gave  me,  in  his  brief  way,  just  the  facts  I 
wanted  to  know.  A  propos  of  Ceylon  and  the  famous  cinnamon 
breezes,  he  said  that  when  he  was  on  board  the  Bungagunga 
Indiaman,  they  stood  one  day  out  at  sea,  some  miles  off  the 
island,  when  the  wind  was  blowing,  niark  you,  right  on  the 
land.  A  group  among  the  passengers  began  to  dispute  about 
these  said  breezes — were  they  a  poetic  fiction,  or  an  olfactory 
fact  ?  With  that,  my  old  gentleman  slips  away  slyly,  rubs  a 
little  oil  of  cinnamon  on  the  weather  hammock  nettings,  and 
has  the  satisfaction  of  presently  seeing  the  pro-cinnamon  party 
in  full  triumph,  crying,  with  distended  nostrils  and  exultant 
sniffs,  '  There  !  don't  you  smell  them  now  ?'  One  of  them,  he 
told  me  (his  multitudinous  envelopes  shaking  the  while),  actually 
published  an  account  when  he  got  home,  relating  his  own  ex- 
perience of  those  spicy  gales,  said  to  perfume  the  ocean  air  so 
far  away.' 

GowER.  Amusing  enough.  Just  the  blunder,  by  the  way, 
of  our  mystics, — mistaking  what  exists  only  on  board  their  own 
personality  for  something  real  that  operates  from  without. 
Their  pleasurable  emotions  can  be  nothing  less  than  precious 
odours — miraculous  benisons,  breathed  from  some  island  of  the 
blest. 

LowESTOFFE.  They  seem  to  me  a  most  monotonous  set  of 
gentry — those  same  mystics.  Accept  my  congratulations  on 
your  having  rearly  done  with  them.     As  far  as  I  understand 


^66  Conclusion.  [b.  xni. 

them,  they  go  round  one  old  circuit  for  ever,  in  varying  forms, — ■ 
just  like  your  gold  fish  there,  Mrs.  Atherton,  now  looking  so  big 
about  it,  and  the  next  moment  tapered  off  to  a  mere  tail.  See  that 
fellow  now,  magnified  almost  to  the  size  of  his  glass  world,  with 
his  huge  eyes,  like  a  cabbage  rose  in  spectacles  ;  and  now, 
gone  again  on  his  way  round  and  round, — always  the  same, 
after  all. 

Atherton.  And  yet  religious  extravagances,  with  all  their 
inordinate  Quixotism,  or  worse,  are  full  of  instruction.  Your 
favourite  botanical  books  should  hint  that  much  to  you  ;  for  the 
vegetable  physiologists  all  say  that  no  little  light  has  been 
thrown  on  the  regularly  developed  organism  by  the  study  of 
monstrous  and  aberrant  forms  of  growth. 

LowESTOFFE.  There  is  something  in  that.  But  these  irre- 
gularities you  speak  of  have  repeatedly  broken  out  in  the  con- 
duct, have  they  not,  as  well  as  in  imagination  or  opinion  ? 

Atherton.  They  have.  The  dazzling  splendour  of  a  super- 
human knowledge  or  a  superhuman  fervour,  has  often  distorted 
the  common  rule  of  right  and  wrong, 

GowER.  As  they  say  the  Northern  Lights  disturb  the  direc- 
tion of  the  needle. 

Kate.  Yet  those  glimmers  and  flashes  are  of  service  in  the 
arctic  night, — better  than  total  darkness. 

Lowestoffe.  Right,  Miss  Merivale.  I  fully  admit  the 
plea. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  I  think  we  must  allow  the  substantial  justice 
of  Mr.  Lowestoffe's  complaint.  There  is  a  sameness  in  these 
mystics.  Each  one  starts,  to  so  large  an  extent,  on  his  own 
account,  with  the  same  bias  and  the  same  materials.  He 
reiterates,  after  his  manner,  the  same  protest,  and  the  same 
exaggeration.  The  same  negations,  the  same  incoherence,  the 
same  metaphors,  have  attempted  in  every  age  the  utterance  of 
the  unutterable. 


d.  2-]  A   So  Hi  within  a  Soui.  361 

Atherton,  So  scence  began  to  make  steady  progress  as 
soon  as  it  confined  itself  within  the  Hmits  of  the  knowable, 
and  ceased  to  publish  fancy  maps  o  the  fcrra  incognita. 
Theosophy  was  perpetually  transgressing  those  limits,  and 
hence  its  waste  of  ingenuity  in  vain  gyrations. 

GowER.  There  is  one  point,  Atherton,  on  which  I  could 
wish  you  had  dwelt  more  at  large  in  your  letter.  Do  we  not 
find  the  most  prolific  source  of  mysticism  in  the  idea  that  there  . 
is  a  special  faculty  for  the  discernment  of  spiritual  truth, — that 
there  is  a  kind  of  soul  within  the  soul  which  may  unite  with 
God,  leaving  behind  it  all  the  ordinary  powers  of  the  mind, — a 
potency,  in  fact,  altogether  independent  of  knowledge,  under- 
standing, judgment,  imagination,  &c.,  and  never  amenable  to 
any  of  them?  We  have  encountered  this  doctrine  over  and 
over  again,  sometimes  in  a  qualified,  sometimes  in  an  uncon- 
trollable form.  Hugo's  *  Eye  of  Contemplation'  is  such  a 
faculty.  Tauler  adopts  the  principle  when  he  separates  the 
Ground  of  the  Soul  from  all  its  acts  and  powers.  It  lies  at  the 
root  of  the  inexpressible  experiences  so  precious  to  the  Spanish 
mystics,  when  every  function  of  the  soul  underwent  divine 
suspension.  It  appears  again  in  the  divorce  declared  (by  Cole- 
ridge, for  example)  between  the  Understanding — the  reasoning 
faculty,  which  deliberates  and  judges,  and  the  Intuitive  Reason, 
which  discerns  religious  and  philosophic  truth  directly. 

Atherton.  You  make  out  a  strong  case,  certainly.  Declare 
intuition  absolute,  with  an  undivided  irresponsible  prerogative 
of  this  kind,  and  what  check  is  provided  against  any  possible 
vagary  of  mysticism  ? 

Mrs.  Atherton.  I  do  not  clearly  understand  the  question 
at  issue.     Pray  explain  before  you  go  farther. 

GowER.  Allow  me  to  make  the  attempt.  I  am  afraid  we 
are  growing  prosy — speaking  for  myself,  at  least.  Old  travellers 
used  to  report  that  the  Danube,  near  its  conjunction  with  the 


362  Conclusion.  [b.  xm. 

Drave,  flowed  in  a  stream  quite  separate  from  its  tributary, 
though  the  same  banks  confined  them  both.  The  two  currents 
were  said  to  be  perfectly  distinct  in  colour,  and  their  waters  of 
quality  so  opposite,  that  the  fish  caught  in  the  one  were  never 
to  be  found  in  the  other.  Now  the  question  is,  whether  Reason 
and  Understanding  in  the  mind  of  man,  do,  in  a  similar  way, 
reciprocally  exclude  each  other. 

Atherton,  Gower  says  no  ;  and  the  failures  of  mysticism 
powerfully  support  his  position.  I  agree  with  him.  I  think 
we  have  all  Avithin  us  what  I  may  call  Intuition,  the  poetical, 
and  Understanding,  the  practical  man  ;  but  that  each  of  the 
two  is  the  better  for  close  fellowship  with  his  brother.  Let 
not  Intuition  disdain  common-sense,  and  think  irrationality  a 
sign  of  genius.  And  you,  Gower,  would  be  the  last  to  give  the 
reins  to  logic  only,  and  live  by  expediency,  arithmetic,  and 
mensuration. 

Mrs.  Atherton.  Thank  you. 

WiLLouGHBY.  But  there  was  occasion,  surely,  for  Coleridge's 
exhortation  to  rise  above  the  dividual  particular  notions  we 
have  gathered  about  us,  to  the  higher  region  of  the  Ui:>iversal 
Reason. 

Atherton.  By  all  means,  let  us  clear  our  minds  of  preju- 
dice, and  seek  the  True  for  its  own  sake. 

LowESTOFFE.  But  I  do  not  find  that  those  who  profess  to 
have  ascended  to  the  common  ground  of  Universal  Reason,  are 
one  whit  more  agreed  among  themselves,  than  those  who  are 
disputing  in  the  lists  of  logic  about  evidence. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  They  are  not,  I  grant.  They  would  attribute 
their  want  of  unanimity,  however,  to  the  fact  tliat  some  of  them 
jiave  not  sufficiently  purged  their  intuitional  eyesight  from  every- 
thing personal  and  particular. 

LowESTOFFE.  Who  is  to  be  judge  in  the  matter  ?  Who  will 
say  how  much  purging  will  suffice  to  assure  a  man  that  he 


c.  2.]  Intuition.  363 

has  nowhere  mistaken  a  '  \Yholesome  Prejudice'  for  a  divine 
intuition  ? 

WiLLOuGHBY.  He  must  exercise  his  judgment 

GowER.  Exactly  so ;  his  critical,  sifting  faculty — his  under- 
standing. But  that  is  contrary  to  the  theory  in  question,  which 
represents  Understanding  as  utterly  incapable  in  the  Intuitional 
sphere.  According  to  Jacobi,  it  is  the  instinct  of  the  logical 
faculty  to  contradict  the  intuitional — as  the  bat  repudiates  the 
sunshine. 

Atherton.  If  the  Christianity  of  mere  logic  hardens  into  a 
formula,  the  Christianity  of  mere  intuition  evaporates  in  a 
phantom. 

WiLLoUGHBY.  But  do  not  let  us  forget  how  limited  is  the 
logical  faculty. 

GowER.  So,  for  that  matter,  is  the  intuitional.  Undeveloped 
by  culture  from  without,  its  voice  is  incoherent,  various,  scarce 
audible  oftentimes. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  What  logic  can  prove  to  me  the  Eternity  of 
the  Divine  Nature?     Is  not  that  a  transcendental  truth  ? 

Atherton.  I  grant  it.  But  my  understanding,  observing 
and  reasoning,  has  shown  me  convincingly  that  I  must  receive 
that  truth  on  pain  of  believing  an  absurdity.  In  this  way,  the 
Understanding  is  satisfied  (as  Pascal  observes  it  always  should 
be),  and  acquiesces  in  a  truth  beyond  itself.  But  if  I  have  not 
thus  used  my  Understanding  as  far  as  it  will  go,  I  am  travers- 
ing the  transcendental  region  without  the  passport  it  should 
give  me, — I  cannot  render  a  reason — I  only  oracularly  affirm — 
I  am  fast  turning  mystic. 

Lowestoffe.  But  how  this  Intuition  sees  to  work,  or  finds 
means  to  work,  without  contact  with  the  other  faculties  of  the 
mind,  I  cannot  conceive.  Has  it  a  set  of  finer  senses  of  its 
own  ?     Has  no  one  ever  defined  it  ? 

Cower.  Several  definitions  have  been  attempted.     I  think 


364  Conclusion.  [b.  xm. 

Mark  Antony's  the  best.  He  delivered  it  when  he  gave 
drunken  Lepidus  that  hoaxing  description  of  the  crocodile.  A 
mind  with  any  depth  of  insight  will  understand  at  once  the 
fine  symbolism  of  Shakspeare,  and  see  that  he  is  depicting 
Intuition.  '  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself;  and  it  is  as  broad  as 
it  hath  breadth  ;  it  is  just  so  high  as  it  is,  and  moves  with  its 
own  organs ;  it  lives  by  that  which  nourishes  it ;  and,  the 
elements  once  out  of  it,  it  transmigrates.' 

Atherton.  In  fact,  Intuition  is  not  to  be  termed  one  among 
or  above  the  faculties  of  the  mind.  It  is  rather,  like  conscious 
ness,  related  to  them  as  species  to  individuals.  As  the  man  is, 
so  are  his  intuitions.  Previous  observation,  training,  judgment, 
all  combine  to  bring  the  mind  to  that  point  from  which  Intui- 
tion takes  its  survey,  more  or  less  extended. 

LowESTOFFE.  Good.  Our  inner  and  our  outer  world  con- 
tiadict  that  separatist  theory  every  day,  by  their  action  and 
reaction  on  each  other.  The  man  who  dreads  the  internal 
light  as  an  illusive  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  has  often  consulted  his 
own  inward  bent,  far  more  than  he  supposes,  in  choosing  what 
authority  he  shall  receive.  The  man  who  professes  to  trans- 
cend the  external  altogether  is  still  moulded  by  it  in  a  thousand 
unimagined  modes. 

WiLLOUGHBY.  The  imperfect  character  of  our  recollection 
should  make  us  very  cautious,  I  admit.  So  much  that  has 
been  imported  into  the  mind  looks  native  and  spontaneous 
after  a  lapse  of  time.  Many  an  idea,  promulged  as  the  dictum 
of  Intuition — as  having  its  source  in  the  immemorial  depths  of 
our  being,  has  been  subsequently  traced,  even  by  its  own 
author,  lo  the  external  world. 

GowER.  That  gabcrlunzie.  Memory  (whose  wallet  has  so 
many  holes),  would  step  in  oftener,  if  he  did  his  duty,  and  say, 
like  Edie  Ochiltree,  '  I  mind  the  biggin  o'  it.' 

Atheriox.   It  seems  to   me   so  unfair  and   ungrateful  that- 


2.]  Spirituality  and  Abstraction.  365 


after  having  been  so'  largely  indebted,  from  the  first,  to  the 
outer  world,  any  man  should  pretend,  at  a  certain  point,  to 
deny  utterly  that  indispensable  coadjutor  in  his  inward  develop- 
ment. 

GowER.  You  remind  me  of  the  affectation  of  the  author  in 
Hiimphrry  Clinker,  who  professed  such  an  antipathy  to  green 
fields  as  made  him  careful  to  sit  with  his  back  to  the  window 
all  dinner-time,— though  he  had,  in  fact,  passed  his  childhood 
with  the  asses  on  the  village  common. 

LowESTOFFE.  Let  us,  then,  celebrate  the  reconciliation  of 
t]^e  pair— Reason  and  Understanding,  if  the  terms  are  to  be 
retained.  So  only  can  our  nature  realize  its  full  productiveness, 
—as  the  richest  mines  lie  always  near  the  junction  of  two 
dissimilar  rocks. 

Atherton.  I  think  spiritualism,  which  complains  that 
religion  is  separated  too  widely  from  common  life,  will 
scarcely  mend  the  matter  by  teaching  men  that  they  use  one 
faculty,  or  set  of  faculties,  about  their  week-day  business,  and 
a  quite  distinct  one  in  their  worship. 

GowER.  -As  though  we  were  to  leave  our  understandings — 
like  the  sandals  of  old— at  the  door  of  our  holy  places. 

Atherton.  Enough  on  this  question,  I  have  only  one 
remark  to  add.  We  have  seen  mysticism  endeavouring  to 
exclude  all  distinct  form  or  expression,  all  vivid  figure,  from  its 
apprehensions  of  spiritual  truth;  as  if  such  clearness  and 
warmth    belonged    to    our    meaner    nature — were    low   and 

sensuous. 

Gower.   Confounding  spirituality  with  abstraction. 

Atherton.  Spiritualism  now  repeats  the  same  error — is  the 
revival  of  an  old  mistake  in  a  new  form.  It  shrinks  from  dis- 
tinctness, mistaking  it,  I  suppose,  for  so  much  gross  materialism, 
or  artificial  formalism.  It  shuns,  as  far  as  possible,  actual  out- 
ward persons  and  events— as  though  reality  were  carnality— as 


3*^0  Conclusion. 


[li.  XIll. 


though  the  fewer  facts  we  acknowledged,  the  less  formal  we 
were  sure  to  be— as  though  we  were  spiritual  in  proportion  as 
we  resolved  sacred  narrative  into  symbols  of  inward  states  or 
emotions,  forsook  history  for  reverie,  and  evidence  for  hazy 
sentiment.  The  Spanish  Quietists  were  well  nigh  enjoining 
the  exclusion  of  the  conception  of  Christ's  humanity  from  their 
higher  contemplation,  as  an  image  too  substantial  and  earthy. 
Spiritualism,  in  its  tendency  to  escape  from  objective  facts  to 
subjective  experience,  displays  a  similarly  unnatural  timidity— 
a  morbid  aversion  to  that  manly  exercise  of  our  whole  nature 
on  religious  questions  which  we  put  forth  on  others. 

Gowp:r.  Thinking,  I  conclude,  that  the  opposite  to  spirituality 
is,  not  sensuality  or  earthliness— but  external  reality. 

WiLLouGHBY.  Why  look  at  me  ?  You  don't  suppose  I  have 
a  word  to  say  in  defence  of  such  a  curious  confusion  of 
thought  ? 

LowESTOFFE  {who  Jias  been  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a 
Shakspeare  while  listening)  If  any  one  of  you  should  ever 
take  it  into  his  head  to  write  a  book  about  mysticism 

Atherton.  Forbid  it,  my  good  genius  ! 

LowESTOFFE.  I  have  a  motto  for  him— a  motto  by  '  sweet 
Bully  Bottom,'  quite  in  the  past-all-utterance  mystical  strain. 

'  I  have  had  a  most  rare  vision.     I  have  had  a  dream past 

the  wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was.  Man  is  but  an  ass 
if  he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream.  Methought  I  was,  there 
is  no  man  can  tell  what.  Methought  I  was,  and  methought  I 
had.  But  man  is  but  a  patched  fool,  if  he  will  offer  to  say 
what  methought  I  had.  The  eye  of  man  hath  not  heard,  the 
ear  of  man  hath  not  seen ;  man's  hand  is  not  able  to  taste,  his 
tongue  to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to  report,  what  my  dream 
was.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to  write  a  ballad  of  this  dream  : 
it  shall  be  called  Bottom's  Dream,  because  it  hath  no  bottom. 


CHAPTER  III. 

What  pale  dictatress  in  the  air 
Feeds,  smiling  sadly,  her  fine  ghostlike  form, 
With  earth's  real  blood  :ind  breath,  tlie  beauteous  life 
She  makes  despised  for  e\er ? 

liROWNrNG. 

nPHESE  lines  hovered  in  Gower's  memory  that  night,  as 
-*-  he  walked  home  after  the  conversation  just  recorded. 
He  thought  how  applicable  they  were  to  asceticism, — especially 
to  that  intense  asceticism  of  the  mind  which,  not  content  with 
wasting  the  body  and  searing  the  sense,  prides  itself  on  starving 
Reason  and  blinding  Imagination, — which  eschews  all  form 
and  figure,  and  affects  naked  truth,  without  a  medium  or  an 
envelope.  His  was  a  nature  which  saw  everything  in  figure. 
His  mind  moved  everywhere  among  pictures.  For  him  to 
dispense  with  metaphor  and  parable — with  significant  raiment 
and  dramatic  action  for  his  ideas,  would  have  been  almost 
equivalent  to  dispensing  with  ideas  altogether.  So  he  quickened 
his  steps ;  for  the  starless,  unfeatured  night  seemed  to  him  too 
much  to  resemble  the  blank  and  bleak  Abstraction  of  the 
severer  mystics, — that  tyrannous  curfew  of  warm  natural  life 
and  of  all  bright  thoughts. 

He  soon  reached  his  abode,  where  a  blithe  fire  awaited  him, 
radiating  its  almost  animated  welcome  over  easel,  busts,  and 
books.  Assuming  light  study  vesture,  he  leaned  back  in  his 
arm-chair,  enjoying  slippered  ease.  He  would  not  liglit  his 
lamp,  but  reclining  in  the  very  mood  for  reverie,  watched  the 
fire — now  the  undisputed  magician  of  his  studio, — as  it  called 
up  or  dismissed,  with  its  waving  flame,  the  distorted  shadows 


3^8  Conclusion. 


[b.  Xlll. 


of  familiar  things  on  wall  and  ceiling.  He  himself  was  soon 
occupied  in  like  manner,  waywardly  calling  forth,  linking, 
severing,  a  company  of  shadows  out  of  the  past. 

In  a  half-waking,  half-dreaming  twilight,  Gower  seemed  to 
see  the  dusky  form  of  the  Indian,  crouched  on  his  mat  beside  a 
holy  river,  awaiting  divine  insensibility.  There  was  the  Yogi, 
gathered  up  in  his  patch  of  shade,  like  an  insect  rolled  under 
a  leaf;  while,  above,  the  beating  sun-glare  trampled  over  the 
plains,  strewn  with  his  reflected  rays,  as  over  an  immeasurable 
threshing-floor. 

Then  he  dreamed  that  he  stood  in  a  Persian  garden,  and 
before  him  were  creeping  plants,  trained  on  wires  slanting 
upward  to  a  point,  and  in  and  out  and  up  and  down  this  flower- 
minster,  hung  with  bells,  darted  those  flying  jewels,  the  hum- 
ming-birds :  the  sun's  rays  as  they  slanted  on  their  glancing 
coats  seemed  to  dash  off"  in  a  spray  of  rainbow  colours.  Some 
pierced  the  nectaries  of  the  flowers  with  their  fine  bills  ;  others 
soared  upward,  and  as  they  were  lost  in  the  dazzling  air,  the 
roses  swung  their  censers,  and  the  nightingales  sang  an  assump- 
tion-hymn for  them.  Yet  this  scene  changed  incessantly. 
Every  now  and  then  the  pinnacle  of  flowers  assumed  giant  size, 
— was  a  needle  of  rock,  shooting  up  out  of  a  chasm  of  hanging 
vegetation ;  and  innumerable  spirits — winged  souls  of  Sufis, 
were  striving  to  reach  the  silent  glistening  peak.  There  was  a 
flutter  and  a  pulsing  in  the  sky — as  with  summer  lightning  at 
night,— and  the  palpitation  of  some  vast  eyelid  made  light  and 
darkness  succeed  each  other  with  quick  throbs.  Now  it  was 
the  pyramid  of  flowers,  now  the  star-crowned  point  of  rock. 
So  time  and  space  were  surpassed — sported  with.  Instants 
were  ages,  he  thought,  and  cycles  ran  their  round  in  a  moment. 
The  vault  of  heaven  was  now  a  hanging  flower-cup  ;  and  pre- 
sently the  feather  of  a  humming-bird  expanded  to  a  sunset  of 
far-streammg  gold  and  purple. 


c.  3  ]  Oower  drcanis.  369 


A  leaping  fame  caused  these  alternations  in  Dreamland,  as  it 
lit  or  left  in  shadow  his  closed  eyes. 

Then  he  stood  on  the  desolate  Campagna,  where  before  him 
stretched  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  aqueducts.  The  broken 
arches,  dotting  at  intervals  the  far  waste  of  withered  green, 
drew  no  more  water  from  the  hills  for  the  million-mouthed  City 
in  the  horizon.  Their  furrowed,  beaten  age  held  in  its  wrinkles 
only  roots  of  maidenhair,  and  sometimes  little  rain-pools  along 
the  crevices, — the  scornful  charity  of  any  passing  shower.  In 
a  moment  the  wilderness  grew  populous  with  the  sound  of 
voices  and  the  clangour  of  tools.  A  swarm  of  workmen, 
clustered  about  the  broken  links  of  the  chain,  were  striving  to 
piece  them  together  again — to  bind  up  the  mighty  artery,  and 
set  it  flowing  as  of  old.  But  an  insatiable  morass  sucked  down 
the  stones  they  brought.  Waggons  full  of  gods  (such  as 
moved  in  the  old  triumphs),  of  statues  monstrous,  bestial, 
many-limbed,  from  all  the  temples  of  the  nations,  were  unladen, 
with  sacrifice  and  augury,  and  the  idols  deposited  on  the 
treacherous  quagmire,  only  to  sink  down,  a  drowning  mass, 
with  bowing  heads  and  vainly-lifted  arms.  Then  the  whole 
undulating  plain  appeared  to  roll  up  in  vapour,  and  a  wind, 
carrying  in  it  a  sound  of  psalms,  and  driving  before  it  a  snowy 
foam  of  acacia  blossoms,  swept  clear  the  field  of  vision.  No ; 
the  old  influence  was  to  flow  no  more  from  the  Olympian 
Houses  above  that  blue  line  of  hills.  Great  Pan  was  dead.  The 
broken  cisterns  would  hold  no  water. 

He  stood  next  before  the  mouth  of  a  cavern,  partly  overhung 
with  a  drooping  hair  of  tropical  plants.  At  his  side  was  a  nun, 
who  changed,  as  is  tlie  wont  of  dreams,  into  a  variety  of 
persons.  Atone  time,  she  was  St.  Theresa,  then  Christina*' 
Mirabiiis,  and  presently  Gower  tiiouglit  he  recognised  Theresa' 
once  more.  He  followed  his  conductress  into  the  cavern,  in' 
the  gloom  of  which  a  hermit  rivulet  was  pattering  along,  telling 

VOL.   II.  ».  B 


37^  Conclusion.  [i-..  x\a. 

its  pebble  beads.  As  they  passed  on,  the  night-birds  in  the 
black  recesses  of  the  rock  shrieked  and  hooted  at  them.  As 
he  touched  the  dank  sides  of  the  passage,  from  time  to  time 
his  hand  would  rest  on  some  loathly  wet  lump,  shuffling  into  a 
cranny,  or  some  nameless  gelid  shape  fell  asunder  at  his  touch, 
opening  gashes  in  itself  where  lay,  in  rows,  seeds  of  great 
tarantula  eye-balls,  that  ran  away  dissolved  in  venomous  rheum. 
Bat-like  things  flapped  down  from  funnel-shaped  holes  :  polypi 
felt  after  his  face  with  slimy  fingers  :  crabs,  with  puffed  human 
faces,  slid  under  his  tread  ;  and  skinny  creatures,  as  it  were 
featherless  birds,  with  faces  like  a  horse's  skull,  leaned  over  and 
whinnied  at  him.  '  These,'  said  Theresa,  '  are  the  obscene 
hell-brood  whose  temptations  make  so  terrible  the  entrance  on 
the  Higher  Life.' 

The  long  cavern  had  not  yet  made  a  single  winding,  and  he 
turned,  as  the  darkness  increased,  to  have  a  last  look  at  the 
entrance,  whence  the  outer  sunshine  still  twinkled  after  them. 
He  could  see  a  green  hill  that  faced  the  mouth,  lying  off  like  a 
bright  transparency.  Or  was  it  a  spot  brought  into  the  disc  of 
his  great  rock-telescope,  from  some  planet  of  perpetual  summer 
— one  of  those  that  play  in  the  hair  of  the  sun  ?  Christina, 
impatient  of  this  sinful  looking  back,  urged  him  onward.  A 
palm-branch  she  carried  grew  luminous,  and  its  plume  of  flame 
dropping  sparks,  became  their  torch.  She  paused  to  point  out 
to  him  some  plants  growing  in  a  black  mould.  Birds  had 
carried  in  thus  far  the  seeds  from  which  they  sprang  ;  but  there 
had  been  no  sun-light  to  give  them  colour,  and  their  form  was 
uncertain  and  defectively  developed.  '  Behold,'  said  she, '  these 
saintly  flowers.  Mark  that  holy  pallor  !  The  sun  never  stained 
their  pureness  with  those  gaudy  hues  men  admire.  Yon  garish 
world  can  show  no  such  perfectness  :  see  them,  they  are 
hueless,  scentless,  well-nigh  formless  !'  '  Sickly,  blanched 
abortions  !'  exclaimed  the  dreamer,  so  loudly  that  he  almost 


b.  3.]  TJie  Cavern.  371 

awoke.  'We  want  more  life,  not  less — fuller — sunnier  f 
Christina  crossed  herself  piously  to  hear  abstraction  thus  blas- 
phemed. And  now  the  passage,  widening,  opened  on  the 
central  hall  of  rock,  that  branched  out  into  depths  of  dark- 
ness every  way,  and  was  fretted  with  gleaming  stalactites. 
There  were  amber  volutes  and  brittle  clusters  of  tawny  bubbles ; 
lily-bells  of  stone,  flowers  with  sparry  thorns  and  twining 
stream-like  stems  ;  creamy  falls  from  slabs  of  enamel,  motion- 
less, yet  seeming  ever  to  drop  from  ledge  to  ledge  ;  membra- 
nous curtains,  and  net-work,  and  traceries ;  tissues  and  lawn- 
like folds  of  delicate  marble  ;  while  in  the  centre,  reaching  to 
the  misty  summit  of  the  dome,  stood  a  huge  sheaf  of  pillars, 
like  alabaster  organ-pipes.  A  solemn  music  trembled  and 
swelled,  and  as  its  rising  volume  shook  the  air,  voices  sang — 
*  Weep  for  the  sins  of  men  f  There  was  a  wild  burst  of  sound  ; 
then  sudden  silence ;  and,  above  and  around,  nothing  was 
audible  but  a  universal  trickling  and  running,  a  dripping  and 
dropping  and  plashing,  while  the  palm-torch  Hashed  on  innu- 
merable tear-drops,  hanging  on  every  pendant  point  and  jutting 
ledge,  or  sliding  down  the  glistening  rock. 

After  a  while,  it  seemed  to  be  Theresa  who  spoke  to  him  and 
said,  '  Here  in  these  depths  is  warmth,  when  the  world  above 
is  locked  in  ice  ;  and  when  the  surface  is  parched,  here  dwells 
chaste  coolness,  safe  encelled.  Our  fire  seems  numbness  to  a 
blinded  world ;  and  we  are  frost  to  its  dog-day  rages.'  With 
that  a  spell  seemed  to  come  over  her  hearer.  The  spirit  of  the 
words  became  his  spirit.  The  fate  of  an  empire  seemed  as 
nothing  in  his  eyes  beside  his  next  prospect  of  rapture,  or  his 
success  in  straining  out  another  half-pint  of  tears.  In  a 
moment  he  was  turned  to  stone.  He  had  become  a  gargoyle 
high  up  on  Strasburg  Cathedral,  and  was  spouting  water  from 
his  lolling  tongue  at  the  circling  birds. 

Gower  next  found  himself,  on  a  cold  grey  morning  in  spring, 
B  B  2 


if  2  Cotlchisidn.  [c.  xui. 

in  a  vine  country,  where  men  and  women  were  toiling  up  the 
steep  hills  on  either  side  a  river,  carrying  baskets  of  earth. 
I^ast  winter's  rain  had  swept  away  the  thin  soil  to  the  bone, 
and  they  must  lay  a  new  one  about  their  vine-sticks.  In  the 
midst  of  their  miserable  labour,  these  poor  people  saw  standing 
among  them  a  majestic  stranger,  wrapped  in  a  robe.  Gower 
thought  he  recognised  Swedenborg  at  once.  '  Stay,'  cried  the 
^eer,  '  God  hath  made  a  soil  already  for  you.  Build  no  other. 
Your  own  stony  hearts  have  made  the  hill  seem  to  you  as  iron.' 
They  heard  :  each  seemed  to  take  a  stone  out  of  his  bosom,  and 
hurl  it  down  the  steep ;  when  straightway  every  foot  sank  deep 
into  a  rich  and  kindly  earth,  and  a  shout  of  joy  broke  forth, 
echoed  far  among  the  cloudy  gorges. 

Once  more  Gower  thought  he  stood  upon  the  .shoulder  of  a 
volcano,  among  the  clinking  scorise.  It  was  growing  dark.  A 
strange  shape  of  fire  was  suddenly  at  his  side,  helmed  with  a 
flaring  cresset,  under  the  light  of  which  the  rocky  projections 
around  glowed  like  the  burnished  beaks  of  galleys.  Over  his 
shoulders  hung  a  mantle  of  azure  flame,  fringed  with  sparks 
and  tasselled  with  brushes  of  fire.  On  his  breast  was  what 
seemed  a  hauberk  of  some  emerald  incandescence,  that  bright- 
ened or  paled  with  every  sinuous  motion  of  the  lithe  frame,  as 
when  the  wind  comes  and  goes  about  an  ignited  tree-trunk  in 
a  burning  forest.  The  form  said — '  I  am  the  Flame-king  : 
behold  a  vision  of  my  works' — and  passed  his  hand  before  the 
eyes  of  the  dreamer.  Gower  saw  columns  of  steam  shot  up 
from  an  Indian  sea,  with  stones  and  mire,  under  a  great  canopy 
of  smoke.  Then  all  was  calm  :  a  new  island  had  been  born; 
and  the  waves  licked  the  black  fire-cub.  Next  he  saw  a  burn- 
ing mountain,  lighting,  at  the  dead  of  night,  glaciers  and  snowy 
precipices — as  the  fire-cross  of  a  great  festival  lights  the  shafts 
and  arches  of  some  darkened  cathedral.  Avalanches  fell, 
looking,  under  the  glare,  like  sliding  continents  of  ruby,  and 


c.  3.]  Simlig-ht.  373 

were  shut  down  in  their  chasm-caskets  with  a  noise  of  thunder. 
He  beheld  the  burning  of  brave  palaces,  of  captured  cities,  of 
prairies  where  the  fire  hunts  alone,  and  the  earth  shakes  with 
the  trample  of  a  myriad  hoofs  flying  from  the  destroyer. 

Then  he  stood  on  the  mountain  side,  as  before  ;  but  it  was 
broad  day,  and  beneath  him  lay  in  the  sun  a  sky-like  bay,  white 
houses,  and  the  parti-coloured  fields  under  the  haze,  like  a  gay 
escutcheon,  half-hidden  by  a  gauzy  housing.  Beside  him,  in 
place  of  the  Flame-king,  stood  a  shining  One  fantastically  clad 
in  whatsoever  the  sunshine  loves  best  to  inform  and  turn  to 
glory.  The  mantle  slanting  from  his  shoulders  shone  like  a 
waterfall  which  runs  gold  with  sunlight ;  his  breast  mirrored  a 
sunset ;  and  translucent  forest-leaves  were  woven  for  his  tunic. 
His  cheek  glowed,  delicate  as  the  finely-cut  camelia,  held 
against  the  sun.  '  I  am  King  Sunlight,'  he  said.  '  Mine  is  the 
even  kindliness  of  the  summer-time.  I  make  ready  harvest- 
home  and  vintage.  I  triumph  in  the  green-meshed  tropic 
forests,  with  their  fern-floors,  and  garland-galleried  tree-tops, 
where  stand  the  great  trunks  which,  mterlaced  with  their  thick 
twining  underwood,  are  set  like  fishers'  stakes  with  their  nets, 
in  those  aerial  tides  of  heavy  fragrance.  There  I  make  all 
things  green  threaten  to  shoot  faster  than  the  cumbered  river 
can  run  through  the  wilds  of  verdure.  I  drive  Winter  away,  as 
though  I  were  his  shepherd,  and  he  leaves  fragments  of  his 
fleece  in  snow-patches  among  the  hills,  when  I  pursue  him, 
I  love  no  flaming  ascents,  no  tossing  meteoric  splendours.  I 
overgrow  the  strife-scars  and  fire-rents,  which  my  Titan  brother 
makes,  with  peace-breathing  green.  I  urge  thee  to  no  glittering 
leap  against  the  rapids  of  thy  natural  mortal  element.  With 
my  shining  in  thy  heart,  thou  shalt  have  peace,  whether  thine 
outward  life  raise  or  sink  thee,  — as  he  who  rows  in  the  glory- 
wake  under  a  sunrise,  is  bright  and  golden  whether  on  the 
crest  ot  the  wave  or  in  the  hollow.     I  put  courage  into  the 


374  Conchision.  [b.  xm. 

heait  of  the  Lady  in  Comiis,  when  alone  in  the  haunted  wood. 
— A  quite  true  story,  by  the  waj^,'  continued  the  Phantom,  with 
a  sudden  famiUarity,  'for  those  of  you  mortals  who  can  receive 
it.  Wilt  thou  come  with  me,  and  work  humbly  at  what  lies 
next  thy  hand,  or  wait  to  surpass  humanity,  or  go  travelling  to 
find  Michael's  sword  to  clear  thy  land  withal?  With  my 
shining  in  thy  heart,  every  flinty  obstacle  shall  furnish  thee  with 
new  fire ;  and  in  thine  affliction  I  will  bring  thee  from  every 
blasted  pine  an  Ariel  swift  to  do  thee  service  :  so  shall  thy 
troubles  be  thy  ministers.  Shall  it  be  the  splendour,  or  the 
inward  sunshine  ?' 

As  Gower  turned  from  the  approaching  Flame-king,  he 
clasped  the  hand  of  Sunlight  with  such  vehemence  that  he 
awoke. 

It  was  one  o'clock.  He  hastened  to  bed,  and  there  slept 
soundly  :  I  am  sure  he  had  dreamed  more  than  enough  for 
one  night. 

From  the  very  church-tower  which  struck  one  that  winter 
morning,  the  ensuing  spring  heard  a  merry  peal  of  bells, — such 
a  rocking  and  a  ringing  as  never  since  has  shaken  those  old 
stones.  I  daresay  Willoughby  would  tell  you  that  the  bells 
made  so  merry  because  he  had  just  finished  his  romance. 
Don't  believe  him  :  suspect  rather,  with  your  usual  sagacity, 
that  Lionel  Gower  and  Kate  Merivale  had  something  to  do 
with  it. 


INDEX. 


ABELARD,  i.  142,  149. 
Absorption,  Mystical,  i.  86. 
Abstraction,  Doctrine  of   Hugo   con- 
cerning, i.  157  ;  of  Ruysbroek,  328  ; 
of  the  Quietists,  ii.  172;  not  to  be 
mistaken  for  spirituality,  365. 
Adolf  Arnstein,  his  Ciironicle,  i.  181, 

213.  243.  31  J.  34°- 

Affiiginiensis,  Jolin,  i.  334. 

Agrippa,  Cornelius,  i.  44;  ii.  61  ;  his 
I'aiiily  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  62  ; 
his  doctrine  of  the  Microcosm,  65. 

Alcantara,  Peter  of,  ii.  157,  221. 

Alchemy  in  the  sixteenth  century,  ii. 
58  ;  Theological,  77. 

Alexandria,  Rise  of  its  Philosophic 
School,  i.  66,  74 ;  Fusion  of  Reli- 
gions there,  72;  Eclecticism,  75  ;  its 
Mysticism  revived  at  Florence,  ii.  147. 

Algazzali,  ii.  5. 

Alvarez,  Balthazar,  ii.  171. 

Amahic  of  Bena,  i.  131. 

Ammonius  Saccas,  his  Eclecticism,  i. 

74- 

Anabaptists  of  Munster,  ii.  37. 

Andrea,  Valentine,  ii.  132. 

Angela  de  Foligni,  i.  362. 

Angelus  Silesius,  ii.  5  ;  his  Pantheism, 
6 ;  his  Extravagance  of  Negation, 
18  ;  Analogies  with  Emerson,  22. 

Anselm,  i.  141,  149. 

Antony,  St.,  i.  109. 

Apathy,  i.  58  ;  styled  Poverty  of  Spirit, 

331- 
ApoUonius  of  Tyana,  i.  71. 
Aquinas,  Thomas,    his  Classification 

of  Virtues,  i.  123. 
Areopagita,  Dionysius.  see  Dionysius. 
Aristotle,  Mischievous  Influence  of  his 

Ethics,  i.  120. 


Asceticism,  Oriental,  i.  56 ;  of  Plotinus, 
71  ;  of  NeoT^Iatonism,  76  ;  of  the 
Fathers  of  the  Desert,  109  ;  mistakes 
the  Design  of  Christianity,  143  ;  its 
services  to  Priestcraft,  365  ;  of  the 
Friends,  ii.  309  ;  discouraged  by  the 
Mysticism  of  Swedenborg,  328. 

Astras,  Indian,  ii.  143. 

Athos,  Mount,  Monks  of,  i.  355. 

Atonement,  Swedenborg's  doctrine  of, 
ii.  332. 

Augustine,  i.  131,  146. 

A  urora  of  Behmen,  ii.  97. 

BAADER,  Franz,  ii.  351. 
Bagvat-Gita,  i.  51. 

Barclay,  his  Apology,  ii.  300. 

Beghards,  i.  184. 

Behmen,  Jacob,  i.  39;  his  early  life, 
ii.  80;  his  illumination,  83,  93,  95  ; 
\\\s  Aurora,  86;  his  debt  to  prede- 
cessors, 90  ;  his  style,  99  ;  genial 
and  manly  character  of  his  My?  ■ 
ticism,  102 ;  his  Fountain-Spirits, 
104,  120  ;  his  Theory  of  Contraries, 
109  ;  his  doctrine  of  the  Fall,  115  ; 
estimate  of  liis  position,  118  ;  com- 
pared with  Swedenborg,  326. 

Bernard,  his  personal  appearance,  i. 
134  ;  life  at  Clairvaux,  135  ;  mode- 
ration of  his  Mystici?m,  136;  cha- 
racter and  extent  of  his  inlluence, 
140;  undue  limitation  of  Reason  in 
his  Theology,  141  ;  dehnition  of 
Faith,  142;  doctrine  concerning 
Contemplation,  143  ;  concerning 
Disinterested  Love,  144  ;  definition 
of  Union,  144  ;  Sermons  on  Canti- 
cles, 145  ;  his  mystical  Interpreta- 
tion, 14^. 


n^ 


Index. 


Berulle,  Cardinal,  defends  St.  Francis 
de  Sales,  ii.  281. 

Black  Death,  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, i.  313. 

Blosius,  l^udovic,  passage  from  his 
Instltutio  spiriitia/is,  i.  24 ;  ii. 
28r. 

Bokelson,  John,  ii.  38. 

Bona,  Cardinal,  i.  24  ;  ii.  178. 

Bonaventura,  i.  149,  154. 

Bossuet,  his  ignorance  of  Mysticism, 
ii.  252,  ?!ofe;  appointed  to  the  Com- 
mission of  Inquiry  concerning  Mme. 
Guyon,  255  ;  prejudges  the  cause 
of  Mme.  Guyon,  256,  note;  his  treat- 
ment of  Fenelon,  257  ;  his  panegyric 
on  the  Spanish  Mystics,  259  ;  his 
Instructions  on  the  States  of  Prayer , 
•zlox  ;  his  jealousy  of  F^n^lon,  264  ; 
his  treachery,  268 ;  his  Account  of 
Quietism,  268  ;  his  hypocrisy,  270, 
7iote  ;  his  misrepresentations,  278. 

Bourignon,  Antomette,  ii.  286,  2S9. 

Brigitta,  St.,  i.  361. 

Buddhism,  its  Mysticism,  i.  56  ;  its 
Monasticism,  56. 

Bustami,  ii.  11. 


CABASILAS,  Archbishop  of  Thessa- 
lonica,  i.  356. 
Cabbala,  ii.  55,  142. 
Cagliostro,  ii.  130. 
Callenberg,  Lady  Clara  von,  ii.  293  ; 

her  death,  295. 
Canticles,  Bernard's  Sermons  on  the, 

i.  145- 
Carlstadt,  ii.  43  ;  opposed  by  Luther, 

SI- 
Carmel,  Mount,  the  Ascent  of,  by  John 

of  the  Cross,  ii.  185,  192. 
Catherine  of  Siena,  i.  364;  ii.  171. 
Cevcnnes,   Protestants  of  the,  ii.  313. 
Christina  Ebner,  of  Engeltlial,  i.  223. 
Christina  Mirabilis,  ii.  221. 
City  of   God,    Mystical,     of    Maria 

d'Agreda,  ii.  164. 
Clairvaux,  Monastery  of,  described,  i. 

132. 
Coleridge,   i.   87  ;   Analcg'es  of  Plo- 

tinus  with,  87  ;  his  intuitive  reason, 

88. 
Ccntemplation,  doctrine  of  Pliilo  con- 
cerning, i.  66  ;  of  Ijernard,  143  ;   of 


Hugo,  156  ;  Richard's  six  stages 
of,  162  ;  the  '  indistinct'  of  St. 
Frances  de  Sales,  ii.  179  ;  of  F^nc- 
lon,  280. 

Contraries,  Behmen's  Theory  of,  ii. 
109. 

Cornelius  Agrippa,  see  Agrippa. 

Correspondences,  Swedenborg's  doc- 
trine of,  ii.  321. 

Counter-Reformation,  ii.  149  ;  cha- 
racter of  its  Mysticism,  151. 

Cross,  John  of  the,  see  John. 

Cyr,  St.,  ii.  248. 


DAVID  of  Dinant,  i.  131. 
Denys,    St.,    of  France,   identi- 
fied with  the  Pseudo-Dionysius,  i. 
120. 

Descartes,  i.  43. 

Desert,  Fathers  of  the,  i.  109. 

Desmarets,  de  St.  Soriin,  ii.  244. 

D'Etrees,  ii.  243. 

Dionysius.Areopagita,  first  appearance 
of  the  writings  under  that  name,  i. 
Ill  ;  Theology  of  the  Pseudo-Dio- 
nysius, 113-115,  278  ;  influence  of 
his  Mysticism  on  the  Middle  Ages, 
119  ;  in  the  East  and  in  the  West 
contrasted,  130  ;  identified  with  St. 
Denys  of  France,  120  ;  followed  by 
MoHnos,  ii.  171  ;  by  John  of  the 
Cross,  185. 

Dionysius  the  Carthusian,  his  defini- 
tion of  mystical  theology,  i.  24  ;  ii. 
281. 

Dippel,  ii.  125. 

Director,  the  .Spiritual,  ii.  158. 

Dominic  of  Jesu  Maria,  his  miracu- 
lous elevation,  ii.  176. 

Dominicans,  Reformatory  Preachers 
among  the,  i.  224. 


EBNER,  Christina,  of  Engelthal,  i. 
223  ;  Margaret,  216. 
Eckart,  his  preaching,  i.  188,  193 ; 
compared  with  Tauler,  192,  254, 
2S2,  302  ;  his  story  of  the  beggar, 
197  ;  probable  motive  of  his  heresy, 
204 ;  analogies  with  Hegel,  206, 
212  ;  sources  of  his  Pantheism,  110, 
282  ;  compared  with  Fichte,  212  ; 
two  classes  of  followers,  330,  note. 


Index. 


3/7 


Eclecticism,  Alexandrian,  i.  74. 

Ecstasy,  doctrine  of  Plotinus  concern- 
ing, i.  77,  78  ;  of  Porpliyry,  97  ;  of 
lamblichus,  104  ;  of  Richard  of  St. 
Victor,  163  ;  described  by  Said,  ii. 
19  ;  Theresa's  prayer  of ,  169  ;  cor- 
poreal effects  of,  169  ;  tlie  '  ecstatic 
life'  of  Francis  de  Sales,  176. 

Edwards,  President,  i.  169. 

Egotheism,  i.  331. 

Emanation,  Neo-Platonist  doctrine  of, 
i.  80  ;  in  the  theology  of  Dionysius, 
113  ;  in  the  teaching  of  Eckart,  27S  ; 
in  the  Persian  Mysticism,  ii.  23. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  i.  306  ;  ii.  8  ; 
analogies  with  Angelus  Silesius  and 
the  Sufis,  9,  20,  22  ;  his  doctrine  of 
Intuition,  i3. 

Endern,  Karl  von,  ii.  98. 

Engelbrecht,  ii.  125. 

England,  M)'sticism  in,  ii.  301. 

English  Platonists,  see  Platonism. 

Erigena,  John  Scotus,  i.  131,  146,  279  ; 
ii.  no,  113. 

Ethics,  of  Aristotle,  i.  121;  of  Monas- 
ticism,  122. 


FAITH,  how  defined  by  Bernard,  i. 
142  ;  justification  by,  ii.  31  ;  to 
what  extent  apprehended  by  the 
Mystics,  31  ;  to  be  distinguislicd 
from  sanctification,  35  ;  Paracelsian 
doctrine  of,  73,  90,  144  ;  how  op- 
posed to  Sight,  240  ;  Error  of  Spirit- 
ualism concerning,  352. 

Faith-Philosophy  in  Germany,  ii.  341. 

Fenelon,  ii.  173 ;  his  first  interview 
with  Mme.  Guyon,  250  ;  signs  the 
Articles  of  Issy,  258 ;  his  Quietism, 
258  ;  difficulties  of  his  position,  263  ; 
his  Maxims  of  the  Saints,  263  ;  ap- 
peals to  Rome,  265  ;  his  friends  dis- 
graced, 268  ;  his  reply  to  Bossuet's 
Account  of  Quietism,  270  ;  his  sub- 
mission, 272. 

Feridoddin  Attar,  ii.  21. 

Fichte,  his  Idealism  compared  with 
that  of  the  East,  i.  Co  ;  his  definition 
of  a  Mystic,  60 ;  compared  with 
Ecka'"t,  212. 

Flagellants,  i.  316. 

Florence,  Revival  of  Xeo-Platonism 
in,  ii.  149. 


Foligni,  Angela  de,  i.  362. 

Fountain-Spirits  of  Eehmen,  ii.  104, 
120. 

Fox,  George,  liis  early  history,  ii.  303; 
his  narrowness  and  his  benevolence, 
304  ;  his  asceticism,  309  ;  principal 
defect  of  liis  Theology,  313. 

Francis,  St.,  de  Sales,  ii.  152;  his  'in- 
distinct contemplation,"  179  ;  his 
Introduction  a.  la  Vie  Divot e,  'zafi, 
note. 

Francis,  St.,  of  Assisi,  ii.  171. 

Franciscans,  Millenarian,  i.  185. 

Frank,  Sebastian,  ii.  47. 

Fratricelli,  i.   184. 

Free  Spirit,  Brethren  of  the,  i.  184. 

Friends,  Journal  of  the  Early,  ii.  305. 

Friends  of  God,  i.  224. 


GABALIS,  Comte  de,  ii.  138. 
Gamahea,  ii.  75,   77. 

Gassner,  ii.  130. 

Gelenius,  Victor,  his  Mystical  Degrees, 
ii.  177. 

Gemairia,  ii.  141,  note. 

Gerlacus,  Pefrus,  i.  367,  note. 

Germain,  Count  St.,  ii.  130. 

Gerson,  Chancellor,  charges  Ruys- 
broek  with  Pantheism,  i.  338  ;  his 
Mystical  Theology,   369. 

Gichtel,  i.  38  ;  ii.  123,  125. 

Gnomes,  ii.  139. 

God,  distinguished  from  Godhead,  by 
Eckart,  i.  190  ;  Friends  of,  224. 

Godet  des  Marias,  ii.  252. 

Greek  Church,  Mysticism  in,  i.  109  ; 
stereotyped  character  of  its  Theo- 
logy, 122. 

Groot,  Gerard,  i.  334,  note. 

Guru,  i.  59. 

Guthmann,  ii.  125. 

Guyon,  Madame,  early  religious  life, 
ii.  207  ;  spiritual  desertion,  222  ; 
self-loss  in  God,  227  ;  Prayer  of 
Silence,  233  ;  compared  with  St. 
Theresa,  234  ;  her  activity,  235  ; 
her  Torrents,  236,  vote ;  persecu- 
tion, 237  ;  first  interview  with  Fene- 
lon, 250  ;  her  doctrine  at  St.  Cyr, 
253  ;  Bossuet's  conduct  to  her,  255  ; 
Flight  from  Meaux,  and  imprison- 
nient,  260  ;  at  Vaugirard,  263  ;  in 
tlie  Bastille,  272  ;  dies  at  Blois,  272. 


S7S 


Index. 


HAMANN,  ii.  341. 
Hardenberg,   Friedrich  von,  see 
Novalis. 
Harlay,  Archbishop  of  Paris,  ii.  246. 
Harphius,  ii.  177,  282. 
Heaven,  described  by  Swedenborg,  ii. 

33°- 
Hegel,  analogies  with  Eckart,   i.   206, 

212  ;  opinion  of  Eckart,  206. 
Heresies,  Mystical,    in  the  fourteenth 

century,  i.  201,  209,  257,  329. 
Hermann    of    Fritzlar,    i.    181  ;    his 

Hciiigculeben,  181,  iioU. 
Hesycliasts,  i.  355. 
Hierarchies,  of  lamblichus,   i.   loi    ; 

of  Proclus,  105  ;  of  Dionysius,  114  ; 

Hugo's  Commentary  on,  155. 
Hildegard,  Abbess,  i.  146  ;  ii.  219. 
liindooism,  its  Mysticism,  i.  55. 
Hugo  of  St.  Victor,   character  of  his 

Mysticism,  i.  154;  his  Commentary 

on    the    Hierarchies   of   Dionysius, 

155  ;    defines    Meditation,  155  ;  his 

Eye  of  Contemplation,  158  ;  defines 

Abstraction,  158. 


TAMBLICHUS,  his  Theurgy,  i.  100  ; 

1  ,  his  Hierarchies,  lor  ;  his  twofold 
life  of  the  Soul,  102  ;  his  doctrine  con- 
cerning Ecstasy,  104  ;  his  mistakes 
repeated  by  Romanticism,  ii.    346. 

Ida  of  Louvain,  ii.  218. 

Ida  of  Nivelles,  ii,  220. 

Identity,  Schelling's  Philosophy  of,  i. 
44. 

Illuminati,  ii.  136,  281. 

Imitatio  Chrtsti,  The,  i.  367. 

India,  Pantheism  of,  i.  55. 

Indifterence,  Eckart's  Doctrine  of,  i. 
188,  194 ;  of  Quietism,  ii.  205,  239. 

Intelligence,  use  of  the  word  by  Rich- 
ard of  St.  Victor,  i.  162. 

Interpretation,  mystical,  i.  33  ;  of 
Philo,  64 ;  of  Bernard,  145  ;  of 
Richard  of  St.  Victor,  161 ;  of 
Swedenborg,  ii.  323. 

Intuition,  'intellectual,'  Schelling's 
doctrine  of,  i.  88  ;  resemblance  to 
that  of  Richard,  163. 

Intuition,  exaggeration  of  its  claims 
by  the  Mystics,  i.  168  ;  doctrine  of 
Emerson  concerning,  ii.  18 ;  not 
an  isolated  faculty,  364. 


Irony,  Romanticist  doctrine  of,  ii.  346. 
Issy,  the  Conferences  at,  ii.  255  ;  the 
articles  of,  256,  S58. 


TACOBI,  ii.  341. 
J     Jean  d'Avila,  ii.  281. 
Jelaleddin    Rumi,  ii.   12,   14,    15,   17, 

no. 
Jerusalem,    Church   of  the   New,    ii. 

335- 

Jews,  persecution  of  the,  i.  315  ;  their 
demonology,  ii.  142. 

John  of  the  Cross,  ii.  182  ;  his  asceti- 
cism, 183  ;  his  Dark  Night,  185  ; 
estimate  of  his  Mysticism,  192. 

Joris,  David,  ii.  125. 

Jubilation,  the  gift  of,  ii.  219. 

Juneid,  ii.  11. 

Justin  Martyr,  ii.  42. 


KANT,  his  practical  Eeason,  i.  89. 
Kathari,  i.  184. 
Kober,  ii.  80. 

Krudener,Madame  de,  ii.  288;  opinion 
of  Madame  de  Genlis  concerning, 
289,  7iote. 
Kuhlmann,  i.  38  ;  ii.  125. 


T  ABADIE,  ii.  291. 

i-J    La  Combe,  ii.  226. 

Lautensack,  ii.  125. 

Law,  William,  ii.  124,  288. 

Leade,  Joanna,  ii.  144. 

Light,  doctrine  of  the  Universal,  ii. 

309- 

Louis  the  Fourteenth  at  St.  Cyr,  ii. 
249,  265  ;  urges  the  Pope  to  con 
demn  Fenelon,  271. 

Love,  disinterested,  doctrine  of  Ber 
nard,  concerning,  i.  145  ;  of  Eckart, 
193  ;  of  Tauler,  303,  309  ;  of  Ruys- 
broek,  334,  note;  of  the  Sufis,  ii.  10, 
17  ;  the  central  doctrine  of  Quietism, 
204  ;  P'enelon's  doctrine  of,  258  ;  its 
truth  and  its  exaggeration,  283. 

Loyola,  Ignatius,  ii.  150. 

Ludolph,  the  Carthusian,  i.  232,  235. 

Luther,  Martin,  his  vantage  ground  as 
compared  with  the  Mystics,  i.  304  ; 
ii.  32-35  ;  his  reply  concerning  the 
Zwickau  Fanatics,  45  ;  his  encountey 


Index. 


379 


with  tlieni,  47  ;  his  protest  against 
the  Mysticism  of  Carlstadt,  51. 


MACARIL'S,  i.  iir. 
Mahmud,  passage  from  his  G71I- 

schcn  Ras,  ii.  24. 
Maintenon,    AFadame  de,  at  St.  Cyr, 

ii.  248  ;  her  interest  in  Mme.  Guyon, 

249  ;  her  caution,  254. 
Maisonfort,    Madame   de  la,   ii.  258, 

282. 
Malaval,  ii.  243. 
Margaret  Ebner,  i.  216. 
Maria  d'Agroda,  controversy  concern- 
ing  her  Myitical  City  of  God,    ii. 

164  ;  lier  elevations  in  the  air,  176. 
Maria  of  Oignys,  ii.  219. 
Marsay,  de,  ii.  291  ;  his  retirement  to 

Schwartzenau,    292 ;    his  marriage, 

293  ;  his  asceticism  and  melancholy, 

294  ;  his  last  years,  295. 
Maurice,  St.,  ii.  130. 

Maxims  of  the  Saints,  ii.  263,  280. 
Meditation,  how  defined  by  Hugo,  i. 

155- 

Merswin,  Rulman,  his  Book  of  the 
Nine  Rocks,  i.  321,  336. 

Mesmer,  ii.  130. 

Messalians,  ii.  11. 

Microcosm,  ii.  65. 

Molinos,  his  Guida  Spirituale,  ii.  171, 
242  ;  charges  against  him,  180  ;  his 
fate,  245. 

Monasticism,  Buddhist,  i.  56 ;  its 
Etiiics,  121;  promoted  by  Bernard, 
140. 

Montantis,  i.  284. 

Montfaucon,  Clara  de,  ii.  163,  220. 

More,  Henry,  his  opinion  of  Behmen, 
ii.  124  ;  liis  mysticism,  315  ;  his 
opinion  of  the  Quakers,  317,  7iote. 

Morin,  ii.  244. 

Miinzer,  ii.  44. 

Muscatblut,  i.  335. 

Mysticism,  the  instructive  character  of 
its  history,  i.  13,  260  ;  derivation 
and  history  of  the  word,  17  ;  defini- 
tions,21  ;  its  causes, 27-33  I  i's  classifi- 
cations, 35  ;  thcopathetic,  36;  theo- 
sophic,  39  ;  theurgic,  45  ;  in  the 
early  East,  51  ;  of  the  Xeo-Plato- 
nists,  63;  in  the  (ireek  (Jhurch,  109  ;  I 
jn  the  Latin  C'lmrch,  127  ;  opposed  | 


to  Scholasticism,  142  ;  reconciled, 
154  ;  Truth  at  its  root,  164  ;  its  ex- 
aggeration of  the  trutli  concerning 
experimental  evidence,  167  ;  Ger- 
man, in  the  fourteenth  century,  235; 
ii.  30;  Persian,  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
3  ;  Theosophic,  in  the  Age  of  the 
Reformation,  29  ;  revolutionary,  37 ; 
beforeand  after  the  Reformation,  41; 
in  Spain,  147  ;  of  the  Counter-Refor- 
mation, 150  ;  of  Madame  Guyon, 
207 ;  in  France  and  in  Germany 
compared,  275  ;  in  England,  299  ; 
of  Swedenborg,  321  ;  its  recent 
modifications,  339  ;  its  ser\'ices  to 
Christianity,  351  ;  its  prevalent  mis- 
conceptions, 353  ;  its  correctives, 
355- 


NAMES,  of  magical  virtue,  ii.  140. 
Neo-Platonism,  eclectic  and  mys- 
tical, i.  70  ;  difference  betv/een  it  and 
Platonism  proper,  76  ;  its  doctrine 
of  Emanation,  So ;  influence  on 
Cliristianity,  85  ;  process  of  degene- 
ration, 91  ;  its  Theurgy,  103  ;  ex- 
pires with  Proclus,  105  ;  introduced 
into  the  Church  by  Dionysius,  113  ; 
confounds  Universals  with  Causes, 
117  ;  its  power  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
129  ;  its  reformatory  influence  in  the 
West,  132  ;  Persian,  ii.  4  ;  revived 
on  the  eve  of  the  Reformation,  55  ; 
at  Florence,  149. 

Neri,  St.  Pliilip,  ii.  218. 

Nicholas  of  Basle,  i.  239 ;  becomes 
the  spiritual  guide  of  Tauler,  240  ; 
his  labours  and  fate,  359. 

Night,  mystical,  of  the  Sufis,  ii.  14;  of 
John  of  the  Cross,  185,  195  ;  of 
Novalis,  349. 

Nihilism,  i.  332  ;  of  Angelus  Silesius, 
ii.  17. 

Nirwana,  Buddhist  Absorption,  i.  56. 

Nordlingen,  Henry  of,  i.  216. 

Norris  of  Bemerton,  ii.  315. 

Novalis,  his  Aphorisms,  ii.  349  ;  his 
Hymns  to  Nii^/it,  349. 

Numenius,  i.,  65,  121  ;  his  hypostatic 
emanations,  82. 

Nymphs,  ii.  139. 


3So 


Index. 


OETINGER,  ii.  351. 
Oken,  ii.  351. 
Omphalopsychi,  i.  356. 
Origen,  i.  302. 


PACHYMERES,   his    definition  of 
mystical  Theology,  i.  24. 

Pains,  the  mystical,  ii.  170,  176. 

Pantheism,  Indian,  i.  55  ;  Buddhist, 
56  ;  Neo-Platonist,  78  ;  its  necessi- 
tarian Ethics,  91  ;  of  Dionysius 
Areopagita,  119  ;  of  Erigena,  131  ; 
of  Eckart,  157,  160,  217  ;  among 
the  people  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
201,  209,  257,  278,  331  ;  of  Angelus 
Silesius,  ii.  6  ;  of  Emerson,  8,  22  ; 
of  the  Sufis,  20  ;  cannot  claim  Beh- 
men,  112,  121. 

Paracelsus,  i.  44  ;  ii.  71  ;  his  four  pil- 
lars of  Medicine,  73  ;  his  Theory  of 
Contraries,  74  ;  of  Signatures,  76  ; 
his  Green  Lion,  78  ;  influence  on 
Behmen,  91. 

Parzival  and  Titurel,  i.  186. 

Passivity,  i.  274  ;  ii.  166,  190,  195. 

Pazzi,  Magdalena  de,  ii,  171. 

Perfection,  doctrine  of,  ii.  232 ; 
awakens  the  alarm  of  the  priest- 
hood, 240. 

Persia,  Neo-Platonism  in,  ii.  4;  the  seat 
of  Sufism,  5  ;  its  mystical  poetry, 
16,  24. 

Petrucci,  Cardinal,  ii,  277. 

Philadelphian  Association,  the,  ii.  142. 

Philo,  i.  63  ;  his  views  on  the  Contem- 
plative Life,  66  ;  his  mystical  inter- 
pretation, 67. 

Pico  of  Mirandola,  ii.  148. 

Platonism,  distinguished  from  Neo- 
Platonism,  i.  76 ;  combined  with 
Christianity  assumes  five  distinct 
phases,  147  ;  in  England,  ii.  315. 

Plotinus,  his  early  history  and  asceti- 
cism, i.  71;  hears  Ammonius  Saccas, 
74;  object  and  character  of  his  philo- 
sophy, 76;  doctrine  concerning  know- 
ledge, 80  ;  concerning  Ecstasy,  81  ; 
influence  on  Christianity,  85  ;  ana- 
logies with  Schelling  and  Coleridge, 
87 ;  necessitarian  character  of  his 
Ethics,  91  ;  his  Trinity,  93. 

Poiret,  Peter,  ii.  287,  290. 

Pordage,  ii.  142. 


Porphyry,  his  position,  i.  94  ;  mode- 
rates the  doctrine  of  Plotinus  con- 
cerning Ecstasy,  97 ;  his  modern 
imitators,  ii.  350. 

Postel,  ii.  125. 

Prayer,  Theresa's  Four  Degrees  of, 
ii.  167  ;  of  Silence,   Mme.  Guyon's, 

233- 

Proclus,  i.  105  ;  influence  of  his  philo- 
sophy on  Dionysius,  112,  114;  his 
endeavour  renewed  by  Romanti- 
cism, ii.  346. 

Protestantism,  its  Mystics  compared 
with  those  of  Rome,  ii.  95,  308, 
note. 


QUAKERS,  see  George  Fox  ;  their 
,  asceticism,  ii.  309  ;  their  doc- 
trine of  the  Universal  and  Saving 
Light,  309  ;  of  perceptible  spiritual 
influence,  313  ;  of  Silence  and  Quiet, 
314  ;  opinion  of  Henry  More  con- 
cerning,  317. 

Quiet,  Theresa's  prayer  of,  ii.  167. 

Quietism,  licentious  form  of  it  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  i.  258;of  Molinos 
and  Theresa,  ii.  172  ;  charged  with 
excluding  the  conception  of  Christ's 
Humanity,  172;  misrepresentations 
of  its  enemies,  173,  7iotc  ;  of  John 
of  the  Cross,  190  ;  its  doctrine  of 
pure  love,  20-1  ;  its  holy  indiffer- 
ence, 205  ;  its  reaction  against  mer- 
cenary religion,  232  ;  ot  P'enelon, 
258  ;  in  the  hands  of  the  Inquisition, 
276  ;  its  doctrine  of  disinterested 
Love  discussed,  283  ;  practical, 
among  the  Quakers,  314 ;  in  the 
present  day,  356. 


RABIA,  ii.  10. 
Ranters,  ii.  306. 

Rapture,  see  Ecstasy. 

Realism,  i.  130,  149. 

Reason,  how  enlisted  in  the  service  of 
Alysticism,  i.  40  ;  how  far  forsaken 
by  Plotinus,  80  ;  Intuitive,  of  Cole- 
ridge, 88  ;  Practical,  of  Kant,  89  ; 
unduly  subordinated  by  Bernard 
141  ;  erroneously  divorced  from 
Understanding,  ii.  361. 

Redemption,     doctrine    of    Behmen 


Index. 


381 


concerning,  ii.  116  ;  of  Swedenborg, 
333  ;  misconceptions  of,  334. 

Reformation,  relation  of  Mysticism  to 
the,  ii.  33. 

Reformers,  their  relation  to  the  Mys- 
tics, ii.  41. 

Regeneration,  Tanler's  doctrine  of, 
i.  246  ;  mistake  of  Mme.  Guyon 
concerning,  ii.  230. 

Ri.'imar  of  Zweter,  i.  1S6. 

'  Rfhitions,  Memorable,'  of  Swedcn- 
borg,  ii.  329. 

Reminiscence,  Platonic,  i.  77. 

Ricci,  Catherine,  ii.  219. 

Ricliard  of  St.  Victor,  his  Mystical 
Interpretation,  i.  161  ;  his  Degrees 
of  Contemplation,  162  ;  his  Doctrine 
of  Ecstasy,  163. 

Richter,  Primarius,  at  Gorlitz,  ii.  86,  98. 

Romanism,  turns  Mysticism  toaccount, 

'•  365  ;  ii-  355- 

Romanticisin,  'lieclc,  its  best  repre- 
sentative, ii.  343,  i?ote ;  opposes 
Rationalism,  344  ;  its  philosophy  of 
life,  345;  its  doctrine  of  Irony,  346  ; 
subsides  in  Superstition,  347. 

Rome,  Church  of,  her  Mystics  com- 
]5ared  with  those  of  Protestantism, 
ii.  95  ;  her  debt  to  Mysticism,  149  ; 
Fenelon  no  fair  sample  of  her 
Mystics,  356. 

Rosenkreuz,  ii.  132. 

Rosicrucians,  ii.  128  ;  pretended  dis- 
covery of  the,  132,  136. 

Rousseau,  J.  J.,  ii.  179. 

Ru>sbrock,  \\\s  Spiritual  Nuptials,  i. 
321  ;  visited  by  Tauler  at  the  Con- 
vent of  Griinthal,  325  ;  his  doctrines 
concerning  tlie  Trinity,  Abstrac- 
tion, Union,  326,  329  ;  his  protest 
against  false  Mystics,  330,  iiotc;  his 
doctrine  concerning  disinterested 
l.ovc,  334,  7iofc  ;  charged  by  Gersoii 
with  Pantlieism,  338  ;  compared 
with  contemporary    Mystics,  338. 


ALAM.AXDERS,  ii.  138. 
^  -Schelling,  conipnred  with  Beh- 
jmcu,  i.  41  ;  his  Philosopliy  of 
Identity,  44  ;  analogies  of  Plotinus 
with,  87  ;  indebted  to  Behmen,  ii. 
124  ;  his  doctrine  of  Unconscious- 
ness, 351. 


Sclilcgel,  Frederick,  his  admiration  of 
Behmen,  ii.  124  ;  his  Romanticism, 
345  ;  his  extravagance,  346. 

Schlegel,  A.  W.,  ii.  348. 

Schleiermacher,  ii.  341,  343,  note. 

Scholasticism,  opposed  to  Mysticism, 
i.  142  ;  reconciled,  154. 

Schropfer,  ii.  130. 

Schwenkfeld,  ii.  50. 

Science,  its  mystical  character  in  the 
Middle  Age,  i.  41  ;  in  the  Age  of 
the  Reformation,  ii.  53  ;  union  with 
Religion,  67. 

Self-annihilation,  Tauler  concerning, 
i.  250  ;  of  the  Sufis  and  Angelas 
Silesius,  ii.  16. 

Self-love,  ii.  214. 

Shemhamphorash,  ii.  141. 

Silence,  Quaker  practice  of,  ii.  314  ; 
Mme.  Guyon's  Prayer  of,  233. 

Sleep,  sacred,  i.  102. 

Societies,  secret,  ii.  136. 

Soul,  its  twofold  life,  according  to 
lamblichus,  i.  102  ;  Spark  of  the, 
190;  Ground  of  the,  Tauler's  doc- 
trine concerning,  246,  255,  291  ; 
Theresa's  Flight  of  the,  ii.  174. 

Spain,  Mysticism  in,  ii.  150,  152. 

Spark  of  tlie  Soul,  i.  190. 

Sperber,  ii.  125. 

Spirit,  perceptible  Influence  of  the,  i. 
272  ;  as  taught  by  the  (Quakers,  ii. 
313  ;  witness  of  the,  314  ;  Swcden- 
borg's    doctrine     concerning     the, 

331- 

Spiritualism,  its  revival  of  antiquated 
errors,  ii.  350  ;  its  morbid  dread  of 
historic  reality,  365. 

Sfaupitz,  ii.  33. 

Stilling,  Jung,  i.  39  ;  ii.  2S9. 

Strasburg,  Godfrey  of,  i.  1S6  ;  rival 
houses  in,  187  ;  under  the  Interdict, 
213  :  Revolution  in,  218  ;  Black 
Death  in,  313  ;  the  Flagellants  in, 
317  ;  resists  the  Imperial  Im]Dost,  319. 

Sulis,  the,  ii.  3  ;  their  early  leaders, 
II  ;  analogies  with  Emerson,  16  ; 
with  Angelus  Silesius,  17  ;  their 
doctrine  concerning  disinterested 
I.ove,  17  ;  their  allegorical  lyrics,  24. 

SubO,  Heinrich,  i.  341  ;  his  austerities, 
344  ;  his  Hori'loi^c  of  Wisdom,  345  ; 
pursued  as  a  poisoner,  348  ;  his  ad- 
venture with  the  robber,  351. 


3§2 


indeJc. 


Swedenborg,  Emanuel,  ii.  321  ;  com- 
prehensive character  of  his  Mysti- 
cism, 322  ;  his  doctrine  of  corre- 
spondences, 323;  position  of  Man  in 
his  System,  325  ;  scientific  charac- 
ter of  liis  ^iysticism,  326  ;  opposed 
to  Asceticism,  328  ;  his  Memorable 
Relations,  329  ;  his  descriptions  of 
the  unseen  World,  330  ;  his  doctrine 
of  Spiritual  Influence,  331  ;  of  the 
Work  of  Christ,  332  ;  of  the  New 
Jerusalem,  335. 

Sylphs,  ii.  139. 

Symbolism,  of  Philo,  i.  64;  of  Diony- 
sius,  114  ;  of  Richard  of  St.  Victor, 
161  ;  how  far  necessary,  ii.  353. 

Sympathies,  Science  of,  ii.  63. 

Synderesis,  i.  256,  327. 


TALMUD,  its  Theurgy,  ii.  141. 
Tanchelm,  i.  38. 

Tauler,  i.  192,  216,  224,  265  ;  Sermon 
on  the  Image  of  God,  226  ;  his  cau- 
tions to  Mystics,  228  ;  disappc.ir- 
ance  for  two  years,  230  ;  his  re- 
storation, 234  ;  he  issues  circuUn 
and  treatises  comforting  the  exco.'.i- 
municated,  236  ;  passages  from  his 
Sermons,  244-251,  290  ;  concerning 
the  '  Ground'  of  the  Soul,  246, 
255,  291  ;  excellences  and  defects 
of  his  Theology,  251  ;  elevated 
character  of  his  Mysticism,  253  ;  pre- 
pares the  way  for  the  Reformation, 
253  ;  compared  with  Eckart,  254, 
302  ;  his  doctrine  of  Abandonment, 
and  the  state  above  Grace,  255  ; 
his  internal  Trinity,  255  ;  on  Work 
of  Christ,  300;  summoned  before  the 
Emperor, 31 8  ;retires  to  Cologne, 3 19. 

Tears,  gift  of,  ii.  220. 

Theologia  Germanica,  i.  148,  288,  367. 

Theologia  Mystica,  i.  21  ;  definitions, 

23- 

Theosophy,  i.  40  ;  in  the  age  of  the 
Reformation,  ii.  29,  69,  note;  of 
Swedenborg,  321. 

TherapeutEe,  i.  66,  Sy. 

Theresa,  St.,  her  early  life,  ii.  153  ; 
her  reform  of  the  Carmelite  order, 
155  ;  sensuous  character  of  her 
Mysticism,    162  ;  her  four  degrees 


of  Prayer,  167  ;  her  Raptures,  170  ; 

her  Torments,  170  ;  compared  with 

Madame  Guyon,  234. 
Theurgy,    i.    46  ;    of  Neo-Platonism, 

105;    Lutheran,    ii.    59;    Modern, 

130  ;   Rabbinical,  141. 
Thomas  k  Kempis,  i.  367. 
Tieck,   ii.  343,  nolc,  348. 
Tophail,  Abu  Jaafer  libn,  ii.  299. 
Trinity,    of   Piotinus,   i.  93  ;  Tuuler's 

doctrine  of  the  internal,   256,  291  ; 

doctrine  of  Ruysbroek  concerning, 

326  ;   of  Behmen,  ii.  103,  104,  note  ; 

of  Swedenborg,  332. 


T  TNDERSTANDING,  its  relation  to 

U  Reason,  ii.  361  ;  not  to  be  dis- 
carded in  religion,  365. 

Undine,  ii.  138. 

Union,  doctrine  of  Piotinus  concern- 
ing, i.  81  ;  of  Bernard,  144  ;  of 
Richard  of  St.  Victor,  163  ;  of 
Ruj'sbroek,  329  ;  Prayer  of,  ii.  168  ; 
r>vedenborg's  doctrine  concerning, 
334. 

Urs;iTi!i5als,  confounded  with  Causes, 
by  Neo-Platonism,  i.  171. 


T  rALDES,  ii.  244. 

V      Veronica  of  Binasco,  ii.  220. 

Vespiniani,  Countess,  ii.  277. 

Victor,  St.,  see  Hugo  and  Richard. 

Victor,  St.,  the  school  of,  i.  153. 

Vincula,  Theurgic,  ii.  59. 

Virtues,  divided  into  human  and 
superhuman,  i.  121;  how  classified 
by  Aquinas,  123. 

Visions,  intellectual  and  representa- 
tive, ii.  174  ;  doctrine  of  John  of 
the  Cross  concerning,  189. 

'Visio  caliginosa,'  ii.  179. 


WALTER,  Balthasar,  ii.  80. 
Weigel,     Valentine,      ii.      51 ; 
studied  by  Behmen,  90,  92,  117. 
Werner,  Zachariah,  ii.  347. 
Wcssel,  John,  ii.  33. 
Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  i.  186. 
Woolman,  John,  ii.  305. 
Words,  'substantial,'  ii.  175,  229. 


Index. 


;H3 


yOGIS,  the,  i.  57. 
I      Yokhdan,  Hai  Ebii,  hibtory  of,  ii. 

299  ;  his  practice  of  contemplation, 

311. 
Vvon,  ii.  291. 


ZANONI,  ii.  128. 
Zerbino,    Prince,    by  Tieck,    ii. 
343,  note. 
Zinzi:;idorf,  ii.  308. 
Zwickau,  the  fanatics  of,  ii.  44. 


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